


Headaches and Ş͢t̶̸ąti̧̧̕c̨̧̡

by madelinescribbles



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Ceases To Exist, Caleb Succeeds, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Vollstrecker AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-01-23 06:21:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18544069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madelinescribbles/pseuds/madelinescribbles
Summary: Caleb found what he was looking for in dunamancy, and is erased from the Mighty Nein’s memory - though he was technically never part of it at all.(Alternate Title: Caleb BAMFs Back In Time and Voidfishes His Friends)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thought of this in the shower and then spent 7 hours writing it instead of an Important Essay.

Nott wakes up in a pile of scattered garbage.

It’s not the first time by a long shot, but it’s certainly the first time in a  _ while _ , and she racks her brain for why she’s in it now. The Nein are travelling back to the Empire via the worm tunnels, so this should, in fact, be the last place she would wake up in garbage.

She sits up to scan the area and something heavy slides off her body. It’s a horribly tattered oversized coat, covered in pockets with weird items spilling from each one. Reaching into a pouch at random, she pulls out an absurd amount of hollow caterpillar cocoons. She twirls one in the dim light curiously, inspecting it best she can with her darkvision, and pops it into her mouth.  

Her lips curl back in distaste. Crunchy and old, but not poisonous. Super weird thing to keep in your pockets for tall folk, though - the rest of Mighty Nein definitely don’t eat cocoons. Except maybe Yasha. But the coat is much too small to be hers, and too distinct for Nott to have never noticed it on the others before. Whose coat is this?

More strange materials litter the ground around her. There’s ash  _ everywhere _ , like someone shook out an urn all over the cave, and oddly enough it’s different than the various dirts spilling out from a few coat pockets. Twigs, smooth stones, various feathers, and lengths of twine are scattered about too, but the rest of it is paper. Some is new and untouched, the majority is worn and scribbled over, but all of it is very high quality stock, based on how it’s holding up to the dampness. Sheets stick out of puddles, cling to the walls, and peek out of the piles of ash. 

But the interesting items are twenty feet down the tunnel, away from where the rest of the group is sleeping. Two books held open by four fist-sized agate paperweights, a brass incense bowl, and one perfectly spherical stone, all of them glittering faintly with an even coating of… something.

Curious, Nott stands up to get a closer look. Her leg makes a weird squelching noise and sticks to the ground. It takes a moment, but once her calf is peeled off the ground, she realizes the coat is leaking something syrupy. She picks it up and sniffs the suspect pocket.

Who the fuck carries around loose molasses?

Idly licking her now-sticky hand clean, she drags the coat behind her to inspect the books, ignoring the viscous trail created by the upturned pocket. The bowl is nearest to her, and it’s clear this is the source of the ash-splosion around the cave. There’s still some burnt incense caked to the bottom of it, but marks around it imply the pyre exploded at one point, which unnerves her. They were sleeping twenty feet away - an explosion of that size should have woken them up. Hells, Caduceus was on watch and he could sense anyone breathing from two hundred feet.

She tries not to let it get to her, and shifts her gaze to the two books. The agates she swipes and pockets immediately because they’re neat and no one is around to stop her, but the books she handles more carefully.

At only 3 feet tall, Nott would have a hard time picking and up either of them based on how thick they are, so she instead squats down and turns the first one in her direction.

Like everything else in a 5-foot radius, they’re covered in some sort of sparkly coating. She swipes some up with her finger, only to immediately start bleeding. Diamond dust, one of Jester’s spell components. It’s interesting, but also unnerving the way it coats the ground in a perfect circle, like it went from diamond to dust very violently (and very magically) in this exact spot. 

She pours a little alcohol on the cut to clean it (and down her throat for courage) then blows the dust off the page with puff. 

The first thing she notices is that it's absolutely packed with content - whoever wrote it had clearly never heard of whitespace or document design. There are no margins or line breaks anywhere on the pages, just tiny hand-written letters scrawled from end to end, leaving just enough room around the strange illustrations of sigils that litter the pages to make sure none of the words run into them. 

The words are odd too. They’re not in common (or halfing, or goblin), but the letters are clearly human-based. Immediately she thinks of Avantika’s journal and wonders if it’s encrypted, but the language feels too organic. Too… familiar. In fact, she’s seen this before, she realizes. It’s Zemnian.

 

> _ “̵̨̛͞D̸̢͟͝u̵̶͏ ̛̛͘͢b͜͝͞i̧̧͝s̴̕͞t̷̢̛͡͝ ̷̴̧͟͟n̵i̸̷͏ç̶̧h̴̡͜͠͝t͢ ̛͠҉͢g͜e̶̵͠ģ̕͝a͏̨̢̧̕n͏̛g̶̢͡͠e҉̵̡̢̢n̸͢͠?͘”̕͢ _
> 
> _ “What? What is that? Magic?” _
> 
> _ “͘҉͘͟W̴̶̧a̴̴̸̢s҉̸̷?҉͜ ̕͏N̨͜ein-̵͏͘ ̷͜͟͞N̢͏̶҉ơ̕͡,̨ ͘͜͟i͝t̡͘͞ ̶̛w̵̡̛͡a͜͜͡s̴͘̕,̡̨͢ ̢͢i̸͘͠t͟҉̧͝ ̶̶̨̢͡w̕͠a̴̷̴͢҉s҉̨ ̨͟͡͡Z͢͏̕͜͝e̷̛͞m͠n̴̨i͟͞͏a̵͠͡n̷͢͜.͏҉͏ ͏N̢͞e͏͢͏v͜͞e̡͟r̵͘͞͡m̵̧͡͏̵i̶n̢ḑ̵͟.̸̨”̡͠͏̛ _

 

Nott feels like she’s been punched in the back of the head. By Beau. With Holy Weapon. She doubles over, clutching her skull, trying to get the throbbing pain to stop. Static floods her ears until it’s all she can focus on. It’s overwhelming, and trying to regain her thoughts only doubles the feedback. Eventually she gives up trying to think through it and lets the static take over, closing her eyes and letting her mind go lax. 

When it fades enough to stop being painful she sits up, rubbing her temples and turning her attention back to the book. Looking at it doesn’t give her pain again, though it does instigate a bit of humming static. Cautious of setting off whatever psychic ward might be on the book, she scoots away from it, getting as far as she can while pinching a corner in her hand and flicking it over quickly. 

She skitters back to get distance just in case, but the book doesn’t explode, or release a cloud of poison, or mentally incapacitate her. It is, apparently, just a book, despite the initial psychic attack. When she tries to figure out what triggered it, her mind wanders away from the topic, guided by static, and she resigns to simply not care instead of pressing further.

Nott approaches the tome again, and peers with one eye open. Nothing happens. 

The new page is further cramped spider-scrawl Zemnian and elaborate sigils that mean nothing to her. The buzzing spikes when she looks too closely at the handwriting, but nothing paralyzing. A few more pages of the same (though one does have a dick in the corner that was clearly not drawn by the author), and she does a quick fan through the rest of it. She’s not bothering to read, mostly looking for a page with anything different in format to catch her eye. A familiar sigil flashes by, and she hurriedly flips back to it. 

Nott remembers learning the exact same runes scrawled in the exact same handwriting on the exact same paper. It’s Message.

 

> _ ““̷͘͠░̢̃̚͡░̵̉ͮͯ҉░ͫ̽͐ͮ░̾ͧ̿͏░̑ͨͩ.ͮ̀͂ knows everything about magic. H̸e͘͟’͟s b̨e̵͢e̢̢n̷ ̢e͞v̴̡e̶n̷͡ ̧̨tea͞ch̵i͏̡͠n͡g̛͠ ̶̕͡m͏ȩ̛ ҉̸͢s͘o̴̷҉m͘͘e̕͞.̢ He’s real good. You should see him–” _

 

The sharp headache is back, but she manages to stave off any true pain by abandoning her train of thought. Disturbed and slightly peeved, she closes the book and puts it aside for the others to look at. She takes a swig from her flask and pulls the second tome towards her.

Nott can already tell this one is going to be even less comprehensible. It’s in Zemnian too, and though less crammed on each page, it’s clear a significant number of pages have been added to the binding, as the cover doesn’t look like it can close all the way. She would have guessed it was a journal, though there are some random bits of  arithmetic, calculus, and arcane symbols interspersed within the paragraphs. She lazily thumbs through a few more pages of the same, occasionally finding sigils, but unlike the other tome they’re casually drawn - for personal reference rather than casting. 

One page is just completely covered in cat doodles. Nott can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes her at the sight. Unlike the dick in the spellbook, these are clearly drawn by the author with their long, spindly strokes. They’re not  _ great _ , but they’re almost perfectly anatomically correct. She would probably call them sketches except one of them has fairy wings and a little crown, and another is surrounded by hearts. Her favorite is the close-up of a face with its tongue sticking out and a little speech bubble that says “blep.”

Entertained, she does another fan through in hopes of finding more. Nothing quite as fun, but there is another cat drawing. This one is towards the beginning of the book, and seems to be an anatomical diagram rather than amusing doodles. Arrows point to different areas of the cat with labels, and lengthy notes line the side. The opposite page in the spread is more casual sigils and a list of some kind, plus another block of text akin to the other journaling pages. 

One thing that she does notice is that the earlier pages have significantly different handwriting than the latter. They’re definitely the same person, but this section's letters are neater and less scrawling. Curious, she finishes her fan from before, and immediately stops it about a third of the way through on the most interesting page by far.

It was written by a madman - that’s the only explanation for it. The other book was cramped, but here the words are literally on top of each other. The handwriting is so frantic that half of the letters look like nonsense, and there are random blots of ink dripped onto the pages. Huge portions of text are scribbled out, and unlike other pages where mistakes are crossed out with a single neat line, these are scratched enough to tear through the page in some places.  

Nott turns back to the page before, and sure enough it’s perfectly neat and coherent, she assumes, in Zemnian.

Morbidly curious, she flips two pages ahead; more of the same chicken scratch and scribbles. Next page; even more. It continues for several pages, and it looks like quite a few more were torn out to make room in the binding, before it finally, _finally_ wanes into the shaky - but legible - handwriting from the cat doodle half of the book. 

She turns back to a random page of madness and tries to make out some of the words. Most of it is incomprehensible from both legibility and linguistic standpoints, but there’s something there that causes static to tickle at the back of her mind. 

Next to each scratched out section, the word “ _ Nein _ .” 

 

> _ “Hey there new guy, you know good words that like sound cool in Zemnian right?” _
> 
> _ “̸҉W̕͜͞e̸̕҉̡ ̡͢a̴͘͘͡r̸͘͘͞͠e̴̢ ͘͟T͏̡h̨e̸ ͠͞M҉̡͢i͟͞g̨͢h̴t͏͏͘y̸̡ ̴̴̧N̡͘e͟͞į̵̛n̡͡.͜”̡̛͘͝ _
> 
> _“Nein?”_  
> 
> _ “Nein!” _
> 
> _“The Mighty Nein.”_  
> 
> _ “I can buy that.” _

 

Their name. Their name is Zemnian. Someone with them knew Zemnian. Who came up with their name? Where are they now?

The headache is back, and static is pulsing in Nott’s mind like the source is inside her ear. She can’t focus, she can’t think. She doubles over again and focuses all her energy on trying not to throw up from the sheer force of it. By now she’s learned to let the blankness take over just to make it all stop. 

The worst of it eventually passes and she closes the journal without a second look. She knows there’s something she’s missing, she’s sure of it, but she can’t quite grasp it. It makes her want to hurl the journal at the wall, but instead she places it gingerly on top for Beau to read and decipher with her monk-ness.

Behind the tomes, placed in front like it was reading them, is a small, smooth stone with a faint ring around it. Nott picks it up gingerly, tossing it back and forth in her hands to test its weight. Nothing dangerous happens, but she stares at it for a long time and feels more static tickle the back of her skull.

 

> _ “Yeza was his name. The halfling man.” _
> 
> _ “̧͘͢T̷̨̨͘h̡͞a̧͜͝͞t̛’̢s҉̕ ̴a̧͜ ̸̡̕g҉͟o̸̷͘͜o̷̴͝d̡̨҉ ̵̵͘͜͝n̕͏̨҉a͢͡m̷̴̨̨͝e͢҉͞͡.̴̸͞͞ ̡͏͡N̸̛a҉̶̷̸m̡͞e̷̵̸̡s̶̸͘͞ ̴̧͝͡a̶̛͡͠r̕e ̶̕͡i̷͠͠m̸̸͘͝p͡͞o̶͜r̕҉҉t̸͘͟a̸͘͡n͏t̷̢̢̧.̷҉͞”̡̕͠ _
> 
> _ “Yeah. But you got your rock!” _

 

It’s an odd thing to remember, especially now that the Nein have  _ met _ Yeza. It’s… a moment with Kiri, of course. She ended up repeating the name to the party. But Nott can’t recall what Kiri’s initial reply was, or why they were even looking for a rock in the first place. Now that she thinks about it, she’s sure that this is the same rock from that conversation. But why is the stone here instead of with Kiri?

The more she meditates on it, the more confused she feels, and details of the memory keep slipping through her fingers like sand, falling faster when she tries to grasp at them. It’s starting to give her a headache. She feels the static flood into her ears again...

Nott blinks and she’s still staring down at the rock, unsure just how long she’d been zoned out. She quickly shoves the stone into her cloak and turns back to loot the coat.  

Careful to avoid any more surprises, she pats down the non-sticky pockets, emptying the useful contents onto the ground as she goes.

Most of it is useless, various powders, twigs from different trees, globs of mud, and lengths of string that aren’t even pretty enough for her collection. Static flares at the discovery of a copper wire nearly identical to hers, but she shoves the thought away before it can take over. The wire goes into her pocket. 

There’s a pocket of loose honeycomb to compliment the molasses (which she doesn’t touch), one that just has three corks (which she pockets), one with dried carrots (that she eats), one full of licorice root (that she chews on), one with an absurd variety of feathers (that she selectively pockets), and one with really old, really browned gauze (which she _almost_ pockets before she smells it).

The final three pockets she almost misses because they’re on the inside of the coat rather than the outside, but when she reaches in she almost has a heart attack.

One of them is full of precious gems. Two diamonds, a ruby, some jade, a pearl, and a few stones she doesn’t even  _ recognize _ . They’re all pretty small, but probably worth plenty of gold. 

The next one is several pouches of crushed gem dust, which she once again can’t identify but knows are worth a lot, and some bottles of very fine ink. 

Finally, she reaches into the last pocket and pulls out 30 gold pieces in a coin-purse (immediately pocketed), an amulet with a weird rune on it, and a folded up note.

Nott inspects the amulet first, ignoring some faint static. It’s nothing special and doesn’t look outwardly cursed. She bashes it on the ground one time just to see if it’s trapped. It seems fine.

Cautiously, she loops it over her head. Nothing happens. She doesn’t feel cursed _or_ powerful. 

Nott shrugs and unfolds the note.

 

> _ To Th̷e ͡Mi҉g̛hty ͏N̶e͟i̡n͝,̕ _
> 
> __
> 
> _ I͞f̕ m̵y ͞pl̷a҉n w̧o͜rk͜s,͘ ͟I ҉do̵n’t̛ ͝k̴n͘ow if ͞t̵his̸ ҉n͡ote͡ w̴i͝ļl ͏even͞ ҉e̕x̸ist ͜anym̨or̕e͘. ̕I̢f̡ I f̢ąi̢l, thiş n̶o͢t͟e͟ mi̷g̶h̕t̴ b̕e ͜i̛n ͞ashe̡s͡ ҉o̶r̸ ͜soake̷d̸ ̷i͞n ̢b̢loo͜d͞ anyway͟. Hm. ̛W͏ri͝t͡inģ th͢i҉s̷ ͏se̛e̷m҉s͞ ̨rąt͜h͜er̸ ͝p̵oint̵l͟ess͜ n͘o͡w. _
> 
>  
> 
> _ ͜I w͜as̴ ░̵̢̂ͯͬ͐ͣ̍ͪ͢░̓͋ͭ̌̒░̷̵̷̡░ͯͣ̈́̌͑░̧̃̾ͥͧ̏ ̷ͤ̚̕͘░̒ͯͯ̎͟͡░̵̛ͣ̏̿͞░̛͒̐͛̌░̷̵̷̡░̴ͪ̄̈ͤ͛͆́̓░͑ͧ̅̍̎͌͒ͩ҉░ͥ̊░̄ͫ͊ͪ͐͑,͟ ̴and b͏e̕for͜e t͢h̨at ͝I̸ w̸as B̡r͢e̴̢̡n̴ ̡̛͢͜҉E̴̡͟r̢̡̕͡m̨̛e͏͢n͜͝͡d̴͜r͏͡u̴̢̢̕d̡͝, an̶d͟ ̵n͞ow ̶I ͠am eith͏er͘ deaḑ ̕or͏ ̨d̶o no̡t̡ exi͞s͝t ̴i͞n a͞ny w̕ay̷ th̕at͠ ̴y̢ou ̕kn͡ow̛ m͠e. ͠If ͘it i͏s̛ th͘e͏ ͞fo͜r͢m͜e͘r,̵ ̸I̢ am̛ s͠o̧rry,̨ eve҉ryon̴e.̛ If̨ įt ̸is̢ the ͜l͘a̴tte͢r, ̛I͝ ͢am̶ ver̴y s̡o͞rr͝y̷, ҉B̧e͡a͟u̧regard, ͠an͢d ev͝e͡n more s͠or̨ry, ͢No͜tt. ͜ _
> 
>  
> 
> _ Ta͏ke ̢good c͟ar͏e of my͢ co̧at̨,̸ ͠Not̨t̨. ͟I̸t ҉i̢s͞ a p͡ie̸ce҉ o̷f ͢sh̷i̧t,̴ bu͠t̴ it͢ k͜ept me aliv̡e ͢to k͜n̴o͘w ͡y҉o͜u̷. ͘Į hop͡e Yu̧s͞sah c̛an h҉e̵l̴p̢ y̡ou wh͠er͟e ͢I͟ f͘ai̡l͟eḑ, ̢a͜nd I pr̷a͞y̨ y̕o̡u cąn f̛o̧r̡g̨ive̡ ̛m͞e̵, li̵ke ͘you t͞o̡ld͡ me ̷yo͡u̷ ͝wo͘ul͏d ̧i҉n ̛Za̢dash̴, but͠ Į pro͏m͠is̡e̸ I ҉d̸on͢’͟t͏ ex͜p̡ect̷ y̛ou͜ ̢to.̢ _
> 
> _ ͟ _
> 
> _ B͡eaur͝eg͘a͢rd, I̵ ̢kn̸o͞w y͢ou wo͠n͜’t̡.͞ S̵o͡, t͞h̸ank͞ you. ̕If ͟yo҉u͟ ha̶v̛e ͜the mi̛sfơr͜t͡une ̴o҉f͏ m̨e͡e̕ti͡ng̶ ̸me ag͝a͝i̧n҉,͟ I w̕iļl ͝not d͝od͢g͏e the̸ ҉f̴ir̕s͞t̨ p̧u̴nch̶. _
> 
> _ ̛ _
> 
> _ ̷T̛o͟ ̛the ̸r͝e͝st o͜f ͠t͝hȩ ̵N͏ein,̢ th͠ank ̸y͟o͡u͜ f̛o̡r̵ ͡c͘ar̨ing҉ ͘f̨or͢ me. Ag͡a͠ins͘t͢ my͜ b̵ętt̡er ͜ju̴d͜ge̛me͞nt͢,͘ ͡I ̢c͞are̛ v͝er̵y͡ m͘u̸c͢h͟ ͜for̵ y̸oų ̕t͢o̕o.͝ _
> 
> _ ̛ _
> 
> _ ̵Regards͢,̷ _
> 
> _ ͠ _
> 
> _ ░̵̢̂ͯͬ͐ͣ̍ͪ͢░̓͋ͭ̌̒░̷ͯͬ͌̏͡░ͯͣ̈́̌͑░̧̃̾ͥͧ̏ ̷ͤ̚̕͘░̒ͯͯ̎͟͡░̵̛ͣ̏̿͞░̛͒̐͛̌░͐̏̑̊ͩ̒͒̑̉░̴ͪ̄̈ͤ͛͆́̓░͑ͧ̅̍̎͌͒ͩ҉░ͥ̊░̄ͫ͊ͪ͐͑ _

 

Trying to understand it is like pushing on a brick wall. As soon as she reads a sentence, she forgets the last, and goes back to reread but forgets the next. Her mind is a sieve, and static keeps pouring through. 

Nott tries. She truly, desperately, tries. Twenty minutes later, there are tears in her eyes and a piercing pain in the back of her skull, but she still cannot remember a single line of the note. None of it sticks, but it leaves her with a deep sadness she can’t begin to explain, and the disorientation grows so strong she feels the need to throw up along the side of the wall.  

Numbly, she stands, wiping tears from her eyes. It’s magic. It has to be. She just has to wake up the others. Yasha will dispel it with her sword, and she’ll read it and finally understand. Something is missing. She’s so close to figuring it all out, she just needs to get rid of the static. It will all fit together after that.

 

* * *

 

The dispel magic doesn’t work. Yasha says she can try again tomorrow, but Nott knows it's no use. The spell worked, it just had nothing to dispel.  

The rest of the party picks through all of the items Nott hasn’t pocketed. Caduceus takes the gems and dusts that are useful for spells and Jester appraises the rest. 

Fjord takes a look at the stone that’s supposed to be with Kiri and notes that it’s suspiciously similar to the orbs he keeps ~~eating~~ finding. The rest of the party half-heartedly agrees, but Nott can tell none of them - not even Fjord - really believe the connection. It feels like they know what it is, they just can’t put their fingers on it.

Jester glances for one second at the inside of the spellbook, looks back at Nott, and says “Nope!” before tossing it at Beau. She doesn’t even bother to read the other one. 

Beau, meanwhile, lets it hit her in the head, because she’s still studying the note. It’s been nearly half an hour, tears are streaming down her face, and she’s gripping it so hard that everyone except Caduceus is too afraid to ask her if she’s okay.

“How are you doing there, Beauregard?” He asks gently.

“Fuck! I was finally getting some of it and I lost it!” She crushes it into a ball and hurls it down the tunnel as far she can before punching a particularly long stalactite clean off the ceiling.

Nott scurries down the tunnel to pick it up before it takes water damage. She gingerly uncrumples it, folds it neatly, and slips it back into her cloak.

At her request, Caduceus takes a look at the journal (because Beau seems a bit too volatile to read at the moment). Specifically, she shows him the mad scribbles, with Jester and Fjord peering over his shoulder, hoping to hear a potential diagnosis. 

“I don’t understand this language,” he says cautiously, “But I’ve dealt with a lot of hurt people and,” he rubs his forehead, trying to find the right words, “It seems to me that whoever wrote this wasn’t just delirious, they were in a lot of emotional pain.” He flips a page, “And they were feeling it for a long time. Some of these are written months apart. Maybe years.”

Caduceus continues flipping forward, past the torn binding and into the coherent-but-shaky section. “These ones all seem to be close together, though. It’s funny, I only know because-”

“Oh. My. Gosh!” Jester screeches, kneeling next to Caduceus and pulling the book from his hands into her lap, “Look at all these _ kitty doodles! _ ” She points to the one on its hind paws, with motion lines to imply hopping. “See how he dances, he’s so talented!” 

Something drips onto the paper from above, and they all look up, surprised to see Yasha standing over them. Two tracks of tears run silently down her face.

“Sorry,” she mumbles and walks away without an explanation, wiping her eyes. 

Jester frowns and abandons the book after that, leaving to stare blankly at the incense bowl. No one really knows what to make of that one, though there is a silent, unnerving agreement that whoever this was casted a spell near their camp without any of them knowing.

Eventually Beau calms down enough to examine the journal herself. She doesn’t know Zemnian either, but she confirms Caduceus’ time frame estimation, pointing out an Empire dating system in the corner of some pages. Though absent for the madness period, they pick back up afterwards… a whole eleven years later.

(Caduceus’ estimation was, apparently, based on sensing the tree fibers used in each piece of paper, so Beau’s proved to be much more precise. And unsettling. Eleven years.)

By the end of it all, everyone has a pulsing headache - Fjord actually throws up at one point - so Jester suggests putting all the items in the haversack to avoid the possible psychic wards, and come back to them later. Everyone readily agrees, but Nott keeps her snatched items a secret (though the stone is confiscated). Before Jester can come around to her, she tucks the amulet discreetly into her shirt.

The last thing they do is pick up the trash and scattered papers around their camp. The written ones Jester mends into the back of the journal, and the blank ones she slips into the cover of the magic tome. Both go into the haversack.

“Hey Jester?” Nott asks as she stuffs the books into the bag, “Can I just see the coat real quick?”

“Oh. Sure!” Jester pulls it out and hands it to her.

There’s a tug in her heart and static in her head as she pulls out a dagger and slices off a long strip of the coat, then cuts out a bunch of the looted pockets. 

“I’m going to need some thread.” she says as she hands the tattered remains to Jester. The rest of the Nein exchange concerned glances, but Nott pulls sewing materials from the side pocket of the haversack and starts walking down the seemingly endless tunnel.

 

* * *

 

With the items out of sight, the worry visibly dissipates. 

Nott eventually falls to the back of the group, her crafting project slowing her down. She watches curiously as the tension fades from the Nein’s shoulders, and all of them gradually - but surprisingly quickly - returning to a joking mood. 

Jester begins singing a song. Fjord, surprisingly, hums along. Even Yasha provides an a capella beat while Caduceus sways placidly.

It’s fun, it’s adorable, and Nott can’t help but glare venomously as she stabs herself in the thumb with her needle for the twelfth time. Something is clearly very wrong - something so important it happened not twenty feet from where they were camping - and none of them seem anxious in the slightest.  

“Out of sight, out of mind, I guess,” she mutters to herself, cutting the thread of the finished pocket off with her teeth. 

It’s haphazard, but surprisingly functional so far. The strip already had two pockets, and she’s finished stitching two more on, with three more to go. When she’s finished she’ll sew the whole thing into a loop, so that she’ll have a giant sash of pockets under her cloak to store her trinkets.

Every pull of the needle is static in her brain, but at this point it’s almost comforting, reminding her why she’s doing it, keeping her more on edge than any of the others. Her heart aches, but making something with the coat eases it for some reason.

“Hey,” says a voice beside her. Nott jumps two feet in the air, whipping out her crossbow with one hand and gripping the half-done sash protectively with the other.

“Woah, stop,” Beau says, holding both her hands out defensively, “It’s just me, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh.” Nott shoves the weapon back into her cloak. “What?”

“It’s nothing it’s just… you have the note, right?”

Nott tenses and tries to look anywhere except where Beau is. “I have no idea what you’re talking about Jester put everything in her bag like we agreed.”

“I’m not stupid, I saw you grab it after I threw it, and I’m sure you looted everything long before you woke us up.”

“I would never!” Nott says, trying to sound as offended as possible. 

“Dude.” 

“...Okay fine.” She pulls out the note and hands it over. “How did you see me when I stealthed so good!”

“I perceived even gooder,” Beau says, snatching it out of her hand and unfolding it.

“Why do you want it?” Nott asks, “Haven’t you forgotten about it like everyone else?” She nods to the swaying chorus ahead of them. They’re on the 7th imaginary verse of "The Ruby of the Sea."

“Yeah that is pretty sus,” Beau says, staring confusedly at the group. She shakes her head and turns back to Nott. “But I can’t get my mind off this note. I know I can understand it, I just need more time.” 

“Well, alright,” Nott jerks her chin at the note, “Tell me when you crack it.”

“Will do,” Beau nods back, and steps forward to begin her studying in peace.

 

* * *

 

It’s long after her sash is done, and Nott is still thinking about that morning. 

She’s too melancholy to join with the rest of the Nein, who have stopped singing in favor of playing “Never Have I Ever.” Caduceus and Jester are winning, with Yasha close behind. Apparently, Jester started saying things very specific to Fjord (“Never have I ever asked someone to drown me in a magic pool to see if I have gills”), and he’s at negative seven fingers, however that works. 

Beau has been concentrating on the note for over an hour now, and Nott doesn’t want to end up like the stalactite, so she keeps her distance. 

Instead she walks alone, fiddling with the copper wire that looks like hers but isn’t. It’s familiar in her hands, except it shouldn’t be, and the static that has now become constant in the back of her mind flares up every time she asks herself what that means. 

By the time Caduceus calls off the game (because Fjord is crying slightly), she’s had a lot of time to think around the static as best she can. A lot isn’t adding up. She traces her steps back to anyone they may have met in the past few days with this type of coat or those books.  

Her first suspect is the one dunamancy wizard who showed them around when she first got Yeza back, making veiled threats about watching them. But that guy dressed pretty posh, and probably wouldn’t carry loose molasses in his pockets.

Next she thinks of the guy from the ambush when they first entered Xhorhas - the one who spoke against them at the trial. But he seemed pretty awed at… at… whatever happened with the Bright Queen in her throne room.

Fuck, what did happen in that throne room? The dodecahedron was involved, she remembers that, but anything beyond it turns her mind into a feedback loop of mind-numbing static. 

 

> _ “̸̸I̷͘͢ ͏ą͠͝m҉̵҉͏ ̸̛͝o͞͏̶̕͟f̴̧͟ ͢t͜͝͠h͟͢͞ę̧͟͞͠ ̸̡̛͟͞E̸̸̸m҉̸p̸̨̕͢i̛͞͏r̷̵̕͡e̸̡̛͠,̷͏͜ ̷̧͢͢͠b̡͢͜͝҉ų̸͝t͢͞͝ ̸̢͠͏I̛͝ ̷̨͢͢a̸̕m̶̕͠ ̢̛҉n̡̕̕o̶̵̵͝ ̨f̸̢̛͜r̷̨̢͜i̶͡͝e̸͜͢n͘͝d͏̷͜͠ ̢͢ǫ̸̛̕͡f̷̢̛ ̶̕͘t̴̸͘h̛e̡̢̛͘ ̸͘E҉̷̢̡m̷̴͠p͢͞i͟͠r̵̕̕e̸̴̕͜.̢͝”̢͡ _

 

On cue, the headache returns. Frustrated, she decides to find out if anyone else has the same mental block she does. She picks up the pace and falls into step with Jester.

“Hey! Jester!” she barks.

“Yes, Nott?” 

“Uh, quick question. How exactly did we curry favor with the Bright Queen?” 

She chews her lip for a moment, thinking. “Oh, you know, we… we gave her the dodecahedron!” she says cheerfully.  

“But who gave it to her?” Nott asks.

“It was-” she cuts off abruptly and furrows her brow, trying to remember. After a moment her face lights up in recognition. “It was me, of course! I can’t believe I forgot, the mote was in my bag, you know, and so I took it out when she was going to arrest us.”

The memory makes total sense, and Nott feels stupid for even asking. Of... Of course. That’s the logical course of action. Nothing else could have possibly happened. ~~And yet-~~

“Oh, wow, you’re right. Sorry about that. Thanks.”

“No problem!” Jester smiles, but Nott swears she sees it falter for just a moment.

Something still feels wrong. It’s not just her, Jester feels it too, even if she won’t admit it. It’s not about the books and the coat and the ritual anymore, this missing piece, whatever it is, goes back weeks now. 

Which begs the question: Exactly how far back does it go?

 

* * *

 

“Psst, Fjord.” 

He continues staring straight ahead, ignoring her.

Nott tugs on his pant leg. “Fjord.”

No response.

“Fjord!” Nott latches onto his leg. 

He unsuccessfully tries to kick her off, but keeps walking.

Nott chomps down as hard as she can into his thigh. “FJORD!”

“JEsus CHRIST! What?” He shouts, grabbing his thigh in pain.

“What’s a ‘Jesus Christ?’” She asks, hopping off his leg to walk beside him. 

“Shut up. What do you want. 3 seconds.” He says it in his frustrated voice that’s an octave higher than usual.

“Where did you and Jester and Beau find me? And why did you decide to let me join you guys?”

“Oh my god we’re having the ‘Am I Adopted’ talk.”

“What? Fuck you! What?”

“What?”

“Just answer the question!”

“Okay okay!” Fjord’s eyes find the ceiling as he recalls their first meeting. “That inn in uh…. Trostenwalde, I think? Somethin like that? We all went to that fuckin cursed circus together and then we were sorta stuck with each other.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Yasha says quietly beside them, and Fjord’s cheeks go dark green in shame. Neither of them had realized she was listening.

“Of course, I didn’t mean to imply anything,” Fjord says in his diplomatic voice. She nods in acceptance of the apology and Fjord seems desperate to let it go and keep walking.

Nott isn’t.

“Yeah, I remember that, but why were you talking to me in the first place? I’m a goblin.” She pauses and thinks about her own words for a moment, “How did I even get in there? I didn’t know magic to Disguise Self yet.”

Fjord opens his mouth like he has a confident answer, then closes it, his forehead scrunching up in confusion. 

“There was definitely a reason,” Fjord says, “My memory isn’t the greatest, but I know there was.”

“That’s the thing, I don’t think there was!” she feels like a conspiracy theorist with all the manic conviction in her voice, but she knows she’s right about this. “We don’t even like each other after, like, a year together! Why did you even talk to me back then?” 

Fjord’s frown deepens.

“That’s not- don’t say that. We get along fine,” he defends weakly, “‘Sides, Jester is the one who went up to your table to brag about the measly coin she almost died for.” 

“Right, right…” and once again the explanation seemingly fills in all the gaps. She remembers vividly how Jester leaned over and introduced herself.

 

> _ “It’s very true, we have a hard time seeing things that aren’t moving, it’s very true. But I can hear you. You҉ ͠sh̕oul̵d ̶t͜ak͢e ͟a ba͞th͢.̴ You҉ ͟know tḩȩy̶ ͞h̶a̸ve s̴ho͏wer͞s her̨e̵.͜I̸ţ'͜s ̕pos̛si͟bl̡e̷.” _
> 
> _“̢͢I͜҉̛͡’̸͢͡҉͡v̷͘͜͏͘e̴̢̕ ̷o͝͠҉̶̧n̡͟l̶͘͢͏͟y͟͜ ̛̕͜͞j̶̸͡u̢̡̢s͡҉҉̨ţ͟͝҉ ̶̷m͜҉͠e͢͠t̵̡͠͞ ̵̛҉͝y̡͏o̕҉͟u͏̧̡̕̕.̵̢”̸_  
> 
> _ “Hi, I’m Jester!” _
> 
> _ “̵͘͜҉͡H̶̨̕i̸͘͡,̷̶͟ ̷͢͡͠I͏͢͝’͞͝͡m̷̶̢̲̲͍͈͢ ░̸̲̯̟̝░̸̰̮̬͍̝ͅ░̵̲͢░̵̵̻̲̟̘̮͈̻░̵̙̗̖͔͉̖̥ͅ.ͮ̀͂͢”̌̈́͑͒͞͞ _

 

Nott’s head throbs in pain and her thoughts fade into static. She stares blankly into the distance and thinks about nothing until she finally blinks and realizes that Fjord is talking.

“-don’t actually… hate you. I, uh, I think maybe I saw someone who had a hard time, y’know, fitting in. Being green. And that’s why we stuck together. I don’t know.”

It’s a lot to come back to, especially with a throbbing migraine. Nott can’t recall a single time she’s had a non-sarcastic, non-threatening conversation with Fjord aside from this, actually, besides maybe that one by the river where she died. She feels bad. One, for dissociating through most of it; and two, because she knows deep down that what he’s saying isn’t true, even if he thinks it is. Something is very, very wrong with their memories, and whatever it is, it’s the reason Nott is with the Mighty Nein.

“I get it,” Nott says finally. The next words out of her mouth feel weird, like the verbal equivalent of swallowing eels. “Thanks… Fjord.”

Fjord sounds just as confused in his reply. “No problem… Nott?” He shudders to shrug it off and strides back up to the front of the group.

 

* * *

 

Nott decides to do some more digging. See how many holes she can poke into the past. See who shrugs it off and who can tell something is off.

“Hey. Caduceus. Question.”

“I will answer it if I can,” he replies, smiling placidly down at her.

“Who gave you that little heart necklace doodad?”

“The Periapt of Wound Closure?” he asks.

“Sure, that,” she waves her hand impatiently.

“Hmm.” He strokes his chin, pausing for a long time before giving his answer. “It’s odd. I know it once belonged to your fallen friend, but I cannot remember who gave it to me.”

“It doesn’t add up! You agree! We have some missing memories here. I’ve been saying it all day, man, we can’t trust our own minds anymore!”

Caduceus’ forehead wrinkles in thought. “I believe memory is fallible. And I am not the brightest candle in the temple,” he says sagely, staring off into the distance.

“...So you don’t believe me.” 

He blinks and turns back to her, confused. “Hm?” He blinks again, and she can practically see his brain catching up to the conversation. “Oh, no, I don’t.” 

“Aw, fuck you!”

 

* * *

 

“Yasha, do you remember how you learned to use the Dispel Magic with your sword?”

Yasha tilts her head to the side, considering.

“No. I don’t. When I try to remember, my mind, it’s steered away.”

“Don’t you think that’s odd?” Nott prods, trying not to scare her off.

“Yes, it’s very odd. I don’t like it,” she says simply. Her face is less vacant and confused than the others were, more resigned, and Nott is invigorated by the chance.

“You think it’s odd! This is important! This is like a major thing right? We can’t just let this go.”

“I think…” She hums thoughtfully, “I think something is missing here, Nott,” Her eyes shine with sadness, “I don’t really know what, but... I’m tired of missing people.”

Like a knife to the chest, the words pierce through her heart and her mental fog simultaneously.  _ I’m tired of missing people. _

“People,” Nott murmurs, “You think it’s a person?” It feels so obvious now, and yet the static humming at the back of her mind threatens to make her forget it at any moment.

“Yes,” Yasha says simply, “I think I have lost someone else. I don’t know who. I have been so careful. But, you know.” She shrugs. “I can always recognize the feeling.” 

A tear rolls down Yasha’s cheek. She wipes it away quickly. They walk together for a few minutes, in a companionable silence.

The revelation gives Nott a lot to think about, but right now all she feels is grief. Someone. She’s lost a someone, and now that she knows it she can’t unfeel it. The coat, the one she cut up and cobbled back together, it belonged to her someone, she knows it. She runs her fingers over the wire that isn’t quite her wire, feeling the sloppy bends of a half-hearted circle.

 

> _ “̶̶̛I͘̕̕’̴̕͠m̴ ̵̡s̷̡͠o̕͘͘͟ ̶̕͠p͡r̶̕͢͝ǫ͢u̸d̡͏̵̸̡!̸̢̨ ͏̸I̵̶͟͞ ̧̧̨͘͞d̕o̴̕͘͟n̷͢’͟͝t̸͞ ̷͟k̴͘͡n͏̵͏o̡̕̕͡w͢͝͞ ̸̶̛͢͠t̡h͏̴a̸͡t̴̶̛ ̵s̴̵̵҉͟p̵͡e͏̡l̛l͞͏҉,͞ ̴̵̵͡s̷̢͢͏ơ̵ ̴̡͜͞I̢ ͘͘c͏̷a̵̶͘͡n̸n̸̕͝҉o͡t̨͡ ̸҉̵t̕͜͡a̧͢͡l҉̡͘͜k͡͠͏ ̷̸b̡͝a̛͏̷c̴̵̕k̴̛.̷̶͜͜”̧̛̕͘ _
> 
> _ “Yes, you can!” _

 

It’s a memory that isn’t all there, but it makes her heart swell with bittersweet emotion behind the static redactions and the migraine. Someone. There’s a someone. And she really, truly hopes they’re alive.

Yasha breaks the silence.

“If I remember, I will let you know. And we will bring them flowers too.”

“Yeah,” Nott says, feeling something warm roll down her cheek. Like Yasha, she smears it out before it reaches her chin. “Yeah I’d like that.”

 

* * *

 

It has been six hours, and Beau has not looked up from the note. 

Everyone is starting to get concerned. Caduceus looks like he’s gearing up for a “Let’s Have a Talk” intervention about obsession, so Nott decides to risk being punched and make her move now, before good mental health gets in the way.

“Hey Beau. Figure it out yet?” She asks casually.

“It’s weird, I originally fell back to ask C-C--C-C--” Beau’s voice catches on the hard consonant and stutters, like she’s choking on a bone. Her eyes widen and her hands fly to her throat, as if there really is something blocking her windpipe. 

“What the fuck!” Nott yelps.

“C--C-C-C--C--” Beau trips and falls to her knees, still gripping her neck, before falling prone completely and rolling in the dirt, clawing at her throat.

“Caduceus!” Nott yells, staring in horror. Seizure, she’s got to be having a seizure. Or, wait, is stuttering the sign of a stroke? Is there a difference between a seizure and a stroke? Nott doesn’t really know what to do for either anyway.

She puts one leg on either side of Beau’s body to keep her from rolling. For a split second, Beau’s wide, tear-filled eyes meet hers in a look of desperation, but the stuttering continues. 

“C-C-C--C-C--”

Nott draws back her hand and slaps Beau as hard as she can across the face.

The stuttered choking stops instantaneously. Nott and Beau stare at each other in shock for a moment.

“What the fuck was that!” Beau shouts, pointing at Nott.

“What the fuck was _that_? What the fuck was _that_!” Nott says, pointing at Beau. 

“Right! What the fuck was that!” Beau says, pointing at her throat.

“What the fuck was it?” Nott shouts.

“I don’t know!” Beau yells.

“Ahhh!” 

“Ahhh!”

“AHHH!”

“Healing Word.” Caduceus says mildly.

Nott turns around, and sure enough the entire party is gathered around them now. A faint glow emits from Caduceus’ staff, and the red handprint on Beau’s cheek fades.

“What the fuck was that?” Nott asks the group. 

 “Are we supposed to know?” Fjord asks.

“I thought she was choking on pocket bacon again,” Jester says honestly. Yasha points to her and nods in agreement.

“It seems to me,” Caduceus says, “That this might be a product of staring at that note in the dark all day-”

“I have my goggles on!”

“-and maybe it started to go to your head a little.” he finishes.

“That’s ridiculous,” Beau argues, “I’m clearly fine!” her words only slur a little bit.

“How much time has passed since we started walking?” Caduceus asks. 

“Twoooo-”  

Nott subtly jerks her thumb upward.

“Foooou-”

She shakes her head almost imperceptibly. 

“Fiiiii-?” 

Another subtle shake.

“Siiiii-?”

She nods.

“Six mi-”

The Nein’s eyes collectively widen. Beau’s gaze flicks across them and her eyes widen too.

“SIX HOURS? Fuck! Really?”

Nott brings her palm to her forehead and rubs her eyes tiredly.

“Yes, Beau, really,” Jester says, “You didn’t even answer when I asked if you wanted to play ‘Never Have I Ever’ with us!”

“You didn't  miss much,” Fjord adds hastily.

“He’s lying,” Yasha says.  

“Fuck. It- it really felt like it was only a few minutes. Six hours.” She whips her head at Jester. “Is this a prank? Are you in on it?” She points at Nott. 

“No! Not a prank don’t kill me!” 

“Only if you get off of me.”

“Deal.”

She scrambles off. Beau stands, rubbing at her temples in the same way Nott does after coming down from a static episode. She can only imagine the disorientation after _six hours_. 

“Alright,” Caduceus claps his hands together, “I think it’s time to break for lunch and have a little group meeting. Yeah.” He nods and begins pulling fresh fruits from Jester’s haversack. “Yeah, that sounds best.

 

* * *

 

“So,” Nott says after they have been thoroughly lectured on the dangers of obsession and importance of not letting friends stare at psychic paper for six hours. “I have a question for everyone.” 

“Ok…” Beau says.

“You ever feel like there’s something missing in your life?”

“Hm. Yeah. This is exactly what I was talking about,” Caduceus nods, “This is not healthy.”

“Just let me fini-”

“No,” Caduceus says, “I think this conversation is over for the rest of the day. You can ask your question tomorrow, and I’m sure we will all listen, but I think for now, for the sake of the group, we’re going to ban the questions, Nott.”

“Deucy, no, I’m so close you can’t-” She cuts herself off when she feels a large hand gently grab her shoulder.

“It’s okay, Nott,” Yasha says, “We just need to take a break. It’s not good for us.” She jerks her chin at Beau to prove her point. “We’ll find them. I promise.”

Nott lets the tension bleed out of her. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

They finished their lunch in silence, packed up, and started down the tunnel again.  

Nott finds herself playing “Truth or Dare” with Jester and Beau, though the truths are all sex questions and the dares mostly involve taking punches from other players, so it’s really more “Kinkshame or Pain.”

Comparatively, the rest of the day passes quickly, and by the time she settles on her bedroll for the night, Nott the Brave has completely forgotten about the burning questions in the back of her mind, and she falls asleep with no static at all, wrapped in the scavenged remains of a mysterious coat. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the dead of night, a man watches six almost-strangers emerge from a hole in the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you can't tell, writing takes me a Long Time(TM), but people liked this so i kept goin! i'm also currently working on another multi-chapter fic (that i will not start publishing until its all done), so keep your eyes peeled! should be ready soon!
> 
> also, remember this fic is canon divergent. when exactly is kinda fuzzy since the xhorhas arc is ongoing while i write this, so please use liberal suspension of disbelief when it comes to that. bless up

Bren should not be here.

That’s not entirely true. Bren should not be here without the intention of killing these traitors. 

He’s fairly certain he won’t be discovered.  Vollstrecker don’t exactly get vacation days, but there are periods of time where the onslaught of missions lull, and Astrid and Eodwulf offer to cover for him if any work does come up so that he can slip away for a few days. No one knows he’s even left the barracks except them.

_ “You’re so much more melancholy than you used to be! If you need a week to clear your head in one of the slow months, just let us know.”  _

Bren’s never taken them up on their offer before. It’s not like he has family he can visit. He “killed” his parents. (And if he  _ did _ try to visit them, Vollstrucker are not allowed to leave the Empire - let alone Wildemount - except on official orders.)

But after 17 years, he opened his notebook - one that no longer is and never was world-wearied or overstuffed - and found the date he’d written down at the moment Caleb Widogast ceased to exist. 

Today. 

He asked Eodwulf to cover two days. That would be enough for travel and any kind of error. Enough for a quick look at his old fa- companions. _Caleb’s_ old companions. Bren has no connections to these people. This is really more akin to visiting the grave of a relative you never knew personally. It’s sentimental, and not really for you. An obligation.

An obligation to a person who never existed… this is ridiculous. Coming here was a mistake.

Yet he does not move. He sits on the edge of the tree line in Felderwin's forest, watching a hole in the ground flanked by two lazy guards. It has been months since the Empire or Xhorhas had use of this sleepy town, and security is more lax than it was when the Nein had left.

This is all, of course, presuming his spell did not completely shatter their timelines. Caleb had been very careful to calculate a version in which minimal reality was altered. Ideally, anything involving Caleb Widogast, or any of the other aliases he used from the night he broke onward, would skip like a broken record. Reality will stop happening for a few moments, and then the universe will realign itself at a later point in time and space that never contained him. No one should even know it’s happening.

And yet, Bren worries sometimes. He shouldn’t. Caleb was plenty competent, and everything so far shows his spell was a success. A group called the Mighty Nein still won the Victory Pit in Zadash, the high richter was still murdered in a ball of flames, and the dodecahedron still went missing after the terrorist attack. 

It’s almost too perfect. Bren has to see for himself that time caught up properly like Caleb calculated. That’s a justification for being here, he reasons, to make sure time is back on track.

A deep rumbling noise vibrates from the hole in the ground, and the soldiers jerk to attention. They peer in curiously, exchanging nervous glances before one of them pulls out something small strapped to their belt. It’s a sending stone. 

“Archmage DeRogna, there-”

That’s all they manage before Bren casts a spell he hasn’t in a very, very long time. He prepares it every mission, just in case, but he never dared use it in the presence of Astrid and Eodwulf. Certainly not in front of Ikithon. It’s a spell Caleb learned, not him. 

Bren casts Temporal Distortion. 

The world around him freezes. The rumbling stops, the guard’s lips lock in place around their next word, even the leaves on the trees cease to rustle. Bren is encompassed by mind-bending stillness and ear-splitting silence. 

Then some unseen force pushes time backwards. For six long, reality-altering seconds, the wind blows backwards, sound wave vibrations return to their source, the energy the soldiers expended to ready themselves is returned. They stand once again to their post, unperturbed by the rumbling that has yet to happen.

Bren feels the last of his magic channel into the spell, and its hyper-geometric dark purple sigil fizzles out of the air in front of him. There is a final millionth of a non-existent second where the numbing stillness return and lingers.

Then time returns with a jolt.

He stumbles forward from the sheer force of being a conduit for reality. Of being more than just a conduit. Of grabbing the thread of existence, snipping it in half, and tying it back together with his bare hands. The force is pulverizing, like the entire universe is trying crush him and blow him apart at the same time.

It’s been years since he - since Caleb - cast that spell. Back then it was ritual, and took months of small-scale practice and calculations. The final product had enough kickback to nearly kill him, but he just barely survived. 

Now, experiencing the consequences for six seconds after 17 years out of practice, he marvels that Caleb’s ritual spell didn’t compress all his atoms into a single point.

Bren forces himself upright through the pain, fumbles into his pouch for some sand and sprinkles it in the air, muttering the words for Sleep. The moment he releases the spell, he feels another jolt in reality, this time centered on him, and cries out in shock.

The rumbling starts and both guards fall unconscious as the white gossamer threads of the spell sigil dissipate like falling confetti. Bren heaves a relieved sigh, collapsing against a tree to regain his composure. He’s starting to realize now that the spells didn’t just stun him, they  _ hurt _ him. One of his internal organs is likely ruptured. If he doesn’t make it to a healer quickly, he might actually die in this forest.

He would die here, a few feet away from the Mighty Nein, casting Caleb’s spells. How poetic.

No, stop. Bren Aldric Ermendrud, Officer of the Cerberus Assembly, Assassin of the Vollstrucker, husband of Astrid Ermendrud, son of Leofric and Una Ermundrud, who are  _ alive _ and  _ safe _ in Tal’Dorei. 

The rumbling continues. Bren does not leave his spot on the tree like he should. Instead he stares at the hole and downs a healing potion from his bag. It’s cheap and does very little. His insides continue to bleed. If he doesn’t make it to a healer quickly, he  _ will definitely _ die in this forest.

Bren pulls out a copper wire. Unlike Caleb’s, it is perfectly circular; field-issued. He casts Sending.

His grip on a tree branch is the only thing that keeps him from collapsing. He doubles over, choking for air, and a string of blood falls from his mouth. The wire bends, nearly crushed in his grasp.

“Mother,” He tries his best to sound unhurt, to not worry her. “I am doing some work that may be dangerous. Don’t know when I can contact you again. Love you both.”

There is no answer. It is likely very early, where they are, but it was a nice sentiment for last words. 

The rumbling stops. A large, grotesque furred creature emerges from the hole, waving its claws and roaring in fury. 

It stops when it looks down at the two unconscious guards, and shrinks into a small tiefling in Xhorhassian clothing.

“Um, they’re totally already asleep you guys. It’s super weird.” She calls down the hole. 

Bren feels the air knocked out of him, but not from the dunamancy this time.

On by one, five figures emerge from the tunnel behind her. The shortest one, a 3-foot figure obscured by a hooded cloak, is the last to come out.

Bren flinches.

He wants nothing more than to get a better look at them, but his darkvision spell dropped with the Temporal Distortion kickback, and casting it again will likely kill him instantly, instead of just soon. If only he kept Frumpkin around like Caleb did. That cat would get him a closer look. 

Instead he watches the dark shapes, an emotion tugging on his heart that he refuses to acknowledge.  _ Like visiting the grave of a relative you never knew. _ The words echo in his mind,  _ Not for you. _

One of the shapes stands from where it had been investigating the Sleeping guards. It extends to a full 7-foot silhouette, and there’s a quick glint of pink from his staff before his eyes flash with tapetum lucidum. He’s staring directly at Bren. None of the others seem to have noticed.

Slowly, Bren lifts a trembling hand, pressing one finger to his lips in a plea for silence. The figure stares for another long moment, until he finally gives one long, deliberate blink before turning back to the group.

Bren sighs in relief and sags into the trunk.

“There’s a man in military robes watching us from the woods there,” the figure says calmly, pointing directly at Bren without looking.

Before he can finish having a proper heart attack, there’s a whizz, a  _ thunk _ and a crossbow bolt sprouting from his shoulder. Bren manages a half-formed thought about the irony of being killed by a goblin in Felderwin, but fails to find the punchline.

The world goes black.

* * *

Bren awakens to sunlight streaming through his window, directly into his eyes.

“Ich habe dir gesagt, dass du die Fensterläden vor dem Bett schließen sollst, Astrid,” he mumbles, turning over and pulling the blanket over his head.

“Oh shit he’s awake. BEAU!”

He bolts upright at the voice, a Fire Bolt already at his fingertips and aimed in its direction. But before he can push the magic into the sigil, he feels the tight, cold grip of a Hold Person restraining him.

“BEAU, HE’S AWAKE, STOP PEEING!” Jester shouts, “I’VE ONLY GOT A MINUTE ON THIS!”

Bren surveys the room. It’s… a bedroom. A child’s bedroom. The floor is littered with blocks and ducks on string, the walls a cheerful blue. Even the bed is much too short for a human adult, he realizes. There’s a tiny step-stool in the corner painted with clouds where someone has placed Bren’s component pouch.

Jester stands a few feet from him, one hand clutching her holy symbol and the other in a tight fist, holding him in place. He’s really glad he didn’t get that Fire Bolt out.

She’s changed out of the Xhorhassian clothes, back into her usual dress and corset. It softens his heart to see her the way she looked when he- when Caleb cast Haste on her, sitting at a piano in Hupperdook.

The sentimental thought is interrupted by a loud wooden crack as Beauregard kicks the door in and lets it slam against the wall.

Bren highly doubts it was locked. If he were Caleb and not paralyzed, he probably would have said it too.

“This is why we should have tied him up first!” Beau shouts, marching towards the bed.

“But he seems so-”

That’s all Bren gets before Beau’s fist connects with his skull and the his vision cuts out again.

* * *

When he wakes up, it’s pitch black. And he’s tied to a chair.

“Now, you’re gonna answer some of my questions,” says Fjord in his fake drawl, “And you’re gonna answer them quickly. Because the longer you wait, the more my friend here gets to punch the truth outta ya.”

There’s a jabbing pain in the bottom of his spine, and he feels a tingling sensation run up his back to his brain, but forces it out, refusing to let his tongue loosen.

Another punch, this time across the jaw. He bites his tongue, both to resist the ki manipulation and discourage any more blows to the face, lest he sever his own tongue. A little tip Ikithon taught him, courtesy of the Cobalt Soul.

The former half of the trick works, the ki doesn’t take, but a hand grabs his face and loosens his jaw.

“Don’t think I don’t know that trick,” Beau growls, “If you wanna cut your own tongue out, fine. We got two clerics who know Mending and plenty of healing to go around. I can do it a few times.”

Of course she would ante up. Bren isn’t too familiar with healing magic, but he’s pretty sure Mending can’t be used on organic matter. Not that he’s ever tried. Maybe in combination with a healing spell? There’s an interesting idea...

Beau releases his jaw and strikes his temple with her elbow in the same fluid motion. He’s so startled he forgets to resist, and feels the nerves in his mouth tingle, his brain buzzing with an energy similar to Zone of Truth, but lacking the arcane sensation.

“We’re in business,” Beau says.

On her cue, a small globe of magical light flares up like a match and floats to the ceiling, hovering in the center of the room. The Mighty Nein are gathered around him, in some kind of basement. There’s smashed furniture everywhere, no doors in sight so likely one behind him, and an opened chest against the wall he’s facing…

They’re in the cellar of Yeza’s apothecary. He’s tied to that suspicious chair they spent way too long investigating 17 years ago. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he says aloud.

“You’re gonna wish we were,” Fjord says, gesturing to the rest of the Nein.

Bren, weak as he is, eagerly takes stock of them. How could he not - they’re a colorful bunch and as young as the day Caleb left them. Bren is too, technically. Physically. But mentally he’s in his early 50s, and he realizes now he had subconsciously aged them.

Caleb’s timeline never happened for Bren, and because of that his memory for the period is not eidetic. He still has the recollections of that reality, unlike the rest of the universe, but there is no uncanny anamnesis like he’s accustomed to. It’s as fallible as the average man’s, and he notices with them before him just how many details he missed.

All of them look young, but Jester in particular, between the dress and her pouting frown. Caleb watched her defiantly eat dinner covered head-to-toe in paint and saw the girl who screamed Hellish Rebuke at a dragon, but Bren watches her crossing her arms to push up her (frankly impressive) muscles, and sees the girl on the deck of  _ The Mistake _ that he promised to return to her mother. There’s a sadness in her eyes that he wishes he could ignore as much as she does. He hopes she sees her mother again soon. 

Yasha looks less timid than he remembers, ironically enough, though that’s looking back through a filter of Caleb’s closest moments with her, when she shaved him and they talked about their social anxiety. Her small, timid voice in the stone giant cave, calling herself a coward for running from execution. None of that doubt is there now, as she projects an intimidating mask to make him squirm. If Caleb hadn’t seen her cry over how fluffy Frumpkin was, and Bren hadn’t gone through extensive torture resistance training, it probably would have worked. He wonders if Ikithon actually spoke to her in this timeline, or if that was something the spell skipped. 

Caduceus looks absolutely the same, that ageless youth combined with a strange wise aura that implies he knows pretty much everything, despite him only really knowing maybe two things and having a strong feeling about the rest. Even now, his gaze seems to read Bren like an open book, despite lacking any spark of recognition. It should probably concern him, considering all he has to hide, but he’s still a little huffy about the forest thing. 

Caduceus is also wearing the Periapt of Wound closure, which means Mollymauk is likely still buried in the hill on Glory Run Road. Or was buried there at one point. If his grave is empty now, it’s not Caleb’s fault, at least. 

Fjord is currently disguised, but Ca-  _ Bren _ , as an  _ Assassin of the Vollstrucker _ , has a crystal embedded in his arm that bypasses illusions. 

(One look at this motley group and he’s thinking of himself in terms of events that never happened.)

Fjord is bigger than he remembers, and he knows it’s because Caleb always thought of him as a talker rather than a fighter. He’s still small for a half-orc, but nowhere near the weakling Nott always teased him for. Bren dare say he even looks more confident in himself, except that it could be an act to go with the illusion he’s seeing through.

Beauregard looks angrier, though he’s once again unsure if it’s his projection, a front for the interrogation, or truly her rage. Caleb has been away for so long, and Bren is not good at seeing under her prickly shell. Though he doesn’t remember her being this malicious during the interrogation of the Kryn in the sewers. Not even with Avantika. Something about her seems… off. If Caleb were around, he would have called her out on it by now. All Bren can do is let her punch him like Caleb promised. Not that he has much choice.

Hopefully she’s able to talk to Jester or Caduceus in his absence. Neither share the penchant for books or the …”emotional complexity” of being an Empire kid, but they’d understand her better than most.

And glaring at him venomously from the corner is-

Nott. Disguised as Veth. 

She’s wearing his amulet. She’s still a goblin, under the illusion of her past self, which breaks his heart even after all this time, but she’s wearing his amulet, which means maybe - just maybe - she got the note. He barely remembers what Caleb wrote after all this time, but he knows he begged for her forgiveness. 

It’s then that he notices she’s wearing a sash across her body - a sash of pockets. It’s a strip of his coat, sewn into a utility belt. Bren’s heart swells with a deep bittersweet emotion at the memory of laying his coat over her on the night he left. 

Caleb’s coat. Bren didn’t lay that coat over her, Caleb did. Whatever drew her to wear it does not extend to him. 

_ It’s sentimental, and not for you.  _

He stows whatever baggage led him to unpack their faces and slips into the cold mask of the Vollstrucker. 

“You do not intimidate me.” He says, keeping his face completely neutral. He can say it aloud under the ki manipulation because it’s true. With all of the extra training and years spent being, well, not broken, Bren can take as many hits as Yasha at this point. He’s certainly powerful enough to incinerate them in seconds. A Delayed Blast Fireball in such a close vicinity would leave no survivors. They took his spell component pouch, but bat guano and sulphur are used often enough that he keeps some on his person (to Astrid’s chagrin). If he managed to distract them with his words, he could reach into his back pocket and-

Ah, no. No, he cannot do that. That is the cold, calculating Vollstrucker within him, treating these people as traitors. They… They are. He  _ should _ be treating them that way. But-

But he is weak. And the Empire does not have so tight a grip on him as they may think. 

_ Like visiting the grave of a relative you never knew. _

Maybe Bren never knew them, but Caleb did. And to Caleb, they were family.

Beau whips her staff across his face with a  _ CRACK _ . Bren tastes iron.

“Why were you watching us?” Fjord asks, his illusory human face as cold as his true one underneath it.

“Why are you disguised?” Bren asks, “I have seen you. Under the veil of night, but well enough. Is it because a human of your size is more intimidating than a half-orc of the same stature? Ah, but then what is her gain?” He keeps his eyes on Fjord and juts his chin at Nott.

It’s a low blow. He’s likely right on the money with Fjord, but calling him out on it feels like a betrayal of what he confided in Caleb about his insecurities. As for Nott, well, she was likely just disguised to avoid harassment on the transit from her house to the apothecary, but his words imply that her goblinism is her true nature. He really, really hopes her time reunited with Yeza has made her immune to those kinds of thoughts. 

Bren is only doing it because he needs to stall. Beau likely only has enough energy to continue extorting him for another 6 minutes before she has to recenter herself. Then Jester and Caduceus will start casting Zone of Truth. At ten minutes each, assuming they each reserve enough magic for two higher-level spells in case he attempts escape, they have enough for a little over two and a half hours of interrogation. He can easily evade answering for that long. Training with Ikithon has prepared him for continuous torture sessions upward of sixty hours. 

Fjord hits Bren this time. He’s nowhere near as strong as Beau, but he materializes the falchion and clubs him with the pommel. It forms a cut on his cheek that stings with the saltwater spray. Summoning his blade out of thin air was probably meant as an intimidation tactic, but Caleb watched Fjord cower in the face of a turtle, so it doesn’t really have the desired effect.

“We’re asking the questions,” Fjord says. His disguise remains. “Why were you watching us?”

“I was interested.” Bren says. The obvious. It stalls. 

Beau’s staff whips across his face again.

“Yeah, but  _ why _ ?” she growls. 

Bren’s mouth wells with blood. He spits a tooth at her. She catches it. And shoves it in her pocket.

“Thanks for the tooth,” Beau says, “We can use it to track you if you escape.

She’s bluffing, just like the Gentleman and his vials of blood. Locate Creature only works within a radius of one thousand feet, and they would be able to guess that he is powerful enough to Teleport. Jester or Caduceus could try to scry on him, but all the walls to the Vollstrucker chambers are heavily warded against it in ways not even the king’s war room is.

Instead of giving that away he glares at them, hoping his eyes shine with hatred. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Caduceus tilt his head. If he picks up on anything written on Bren’s face, he doesn’t say anything. He’ll likely wait to tell everyone out of earshot. Wunderbar.

“I think it’s about time for another round,” Beau says, slamming her palm into his chest. It knocks the air out of his lungs, and his body gives way to the ki that locks his tongue against lying.

165 minutes remaining. Then he can Friends whoever is on watch for the night and Teleport back to Rexxentrum.

“What’s your name?” Jester asks, with much less hostility than Fjord and Beau.

“Aldric,” he says. The Vollstrucker are nonexistent; even if he gave them his first name, he would be untraceable, though with this group it is better safe than sorry. 

Actually, they’re stupid enough to ask after him in high places. If it got back to Ikithon that someone interrogated him, he’d be dead. It's best he Modify Memory on Beau, Fjord, and Jester before he Teleports out, just so they ask after the wrong name.

“Sorry, didn’t quite catch that.” Caduceus says, confused.

“Aldric,” he says again, clearer. They always had trouble with names.

“One more time?” Beau asks.

“Al-dric,” he says slowly.

That’s when he notices their faces. Every single one of their eyes are glazed over, as if they’re not entirely there. They’re staring at him, but unfocused, as if deep in thought.

Fjord snaps out of it first.

“Right, yeah.” he says, and like that whatever trance they were under is broken; eyes clear, seemingly none of them noticing anything weird.

...Odd. 

“Who sent you, er,  _ you _ ?” Fjord asks, clearly grasping for his Bren’s name and giving up

Very odd. Did Ikithon put some sort of triggering spell on their names after graduation? He doesn’t recall any such process being standard procedure.

He doesn’t answer Fjord, instead narrowing his eyes and looking over each party member for some indication of what just happened. Maybe some of them are charmed?

“Was it Lady DeRogna? Are you here for Yeza Brenatto?”

“No,” he says simply, because if they think he’s here for Yeza, they will kill him instantly. Rather, Nott will. 

“So who  _ do _ you work for?” Beau asks. 

Bren gives her a once-over. His current life has gave him a much more expansive knowledge on the Cobalt Soul than Caleb’s did. Her order has plenty more classified information than Beau ever outwardly showed. A  _ lot _ more. And the way she looks at him now? Well-

“I think you already know.” Bren says. It’s only to her.

Beau narrows her eyes. 

“He’s a Scourger,” she says, not breaking eye contact with Caleb, “Empire boogeymen. Not even supposed to exist. The king’s personal assassins, so good even most monks in the Expositors thought they were a myth. I’ve only ever heard about them once but… I thought it was a rumor.”

The tension in the room is so heavy it’s suffocating. Beau does not quit her staring contest. The rest of the Nein exchange nervous glances, except for Caduceus who continues to look thoughtfully at Bren.

“And they’re interested in  _ us _ .” Caduceus says, eyebrows knit in concern. “Yeah, okay, I’m gonna try something here. I think it’s time.”

He taps his staff on the ground, and the amethyst at the top starts glowing. Caduceus closes his eyes, mutters a few words in Giant, and when he opens them again, they’re gleaming with the same purple as his staff. 

“Answer all of our questions with as much information as possible.” He orders. 

Magic is laced into the command. Bren can feel it pressing into the back of his skull, at first deceptively similar to the soothing coolness of Caduceus’ healing magic, but becoming icier when he resists, until it stings like frostbite. 

Bren has had hours and hours of practice resisting compulsion spells. (Ikithon is nothing if not a thorough bastard.) He pushes it out before it can take any real grasp on his mind; the Geas fails. 

“Never mind.” Caduceus sighs, leaning against his staff.

“It’s okay, Caduceus, I can try!” Jester’s cheer is audibly forced. 

“Don’t waste the spell,” Bren says, “I am immune for the next 24 hours now.”

Hm. That was stupid. If these were any other captors, Bren would have let them burn the spell for the tactical advantage in an escape. Especially considering Geas is a heavy hitter for this group. He has to be more careful.

Sure enough, Caduceus is looking him over with narrowed eyes. 

In a split second, it’s gone, and his usual placid demeanor is in its wake. 

“Our friend here is right, Jester,” he puts a hand on her shoulder, “But I appreciate the thought.”

Something slams against Bren’s jaw, and the now-familiar tingling feeling crawls over his tongue and the base of his skull. 

“Reapplication.” Beau says, one eyebrow raised in amusement. 

He spits some blood and another tooth at her feet. She steps deftly backwards to avoid it. 

“At this rate, I’m not going to have anything left in my mouth to speak with.” Bren says dryly. 

“The more you spill, the more I leave you.” Beau replies. 

Bren shrugs. “Even if you free me with half my teeth, my colleagues will likely rip another out for every answer I give you.”

Fjord makes a disgusted noise. 

“That’s messed up,” Jester agrees.

“It makes sense to me,” Yasha says from her place on the wall.  

All of the Nein turn to stare at her with concern. 

Yasha shrinks in on herself. “Can’t snitch without teeth,” she mumbles. 

“Or cast,” Beau nods thoughtfully in agreement.

“Oh-kay, we might wanna unpack why that’s concerning at a later date,” Fjord says, looking reasonably disturbed, “For now, maybe let’s do spells instead of punching, yeah?” He nods at Jester. 

“Yes of course!” she holds up her homemade Traveler’s symbol and mutters a few words in Infernal. (Bren thinks he hears the word for “please,” based on his limited, torture-related experience with Infernal, and it weirdly makes sense that Jester casts spells by asking for them.)

When she opens her eyes, they’re shining a bright white like the symbol in her hand. There’s a beat of her staring into nothing before a 30 foot circle glows softly around them and fades with the light in her eyes.

Jester’s magic was always an intense heat followed by a chill, like the sensation of a sunburn soothed by a cool salve. With resistance, however, it presses Bren like a searing-hot brand, threatening to press through the back of his skull. 

Just when he thinks he’s thrown it off, there’s a sharp feeling akin to being dunked in ice water that catches him by surprise, and he realizes too late that the spell has succeeded. He has to suppress a shudder as the tingling cold crawls spider-like over his skull and tongue.

He notes Yasha, Nott, and Beau all shiver slightly, though Beau makes a valiant effort of hiding it.

“Oh yay! It worked!” Jester beams with pride.

Bren swears he’s normally much better at resisting these. Today has not been his day.

“Still had a good forty-five seconds on my punch but it’s fine,” Beau grumbles under her breath beside Bren.

“It will only last ten minutes, you guys,” Jester says, oblivious.

Beau glares at Bren as if it somehow his fault that godly magic is more powerful than her fists.

160 minutes. That’s all he has to last.

* * *

All things considered, Bren doesn’t do too bad.

Beau continues to beat the shit out of him with prejudice, Jester and Clay take turns renewing Zone of Truth, Fjord continues to ask questions of varying relevance. Yasha occasionally assists with intimidation, but has yet to do more than brandish her sword menacingly in his direction.  They even heal him slightly when he teeters dangerously close to passing out. 

50 minutes in, and Bren feels optimistic about his prospects. He’s given away no serious intel, and no more indications that he knows more about these people than what an informant could provide. 

When they ask how he knew where to find them, he simply flashes a wolfish grin at Beau. He knows the misdirection worked when Jester whispers “Dairon?” to Fjord across the room.

Beau punches him in the dick for that one.

Overall, he thinks he’ll be able to outlast them before at least half the party needs to rest for the night. With the healing he received, they can only keep doing this for another 70 minutes.

At least, that’s what he thinks before Fjord’s next question is interrupted.

“What’s the deal with the static?” Nott rasps from the corner. 

It takes him by surprise enough for the confident Vollstrecker mask to slip for half a second. Even the Nein seem taken aback. Nott hasn’t spoken at all during the interrogation, and Bren has no idea what “the static” is referring to.

“Pardon?” Bren asks.

“The brain shit!” She says, hefting her crossbow and leveling it with his forehead. Unlike Fjord, Nott hasn’t renewed her disguise. Her eyes are wild, and for the first time since they became close with the Mighty Nein, she looks genuinely  _ feral _ . Bren can’t even consider chalking it up to an interrogation tactic; the look on her face is so unhinged it reminds him of the desperate creature that helped Caleb crawl out of that prison cell. 

He blinks in surprise and leans back in the chair, his first display of anxiety the entire night.

“Why does it hurt to look at you!” Nott continues, scampering forward and shoving the crossbow into his chest, “And what’s it gotta do with this?” She waves a crumpled piece of paper right in front of his eyes.

Bren truly believes she’ll kill him if he doesn’t answer, and the rest of the Nein look too uneasy to stop her.

“I-I don’t know. I don’t- what is that?” Bren tries to get a better look at the parchment she’s shaking around.

“Hey, Nott, maybe-”

“Shut up!” Nott snaps at Beau. Caduceus raises an eyebrow but no one says anything else. “I don’t care about those questions, and I’m tired of the headaches and forgetting shit! You’re not here for Yeza, which means it’s got something to do with this static garbage! So why?”

If Jester is good cop and Beau is bad cop, Nott’s a lunatic who wandered into the station to hold the place up for booze money. 

_ I don’t know! I really don’t!  _ Bren wants to shout, but it gets stopped in his throat, filtered by the spell. 

“Ack-ck-ck-” The sound catches and he makes a choking noise like he swallowed a fishbone. He knows why he’s here. 

“You can’t lie where god can hear you!” Nott screeches, grabbing the lapels of his uniform and shaking him. It exacerbates the choking and Bren is finding it harder to breathe.

“The paper!” he manages to gasp, “Let me look at the paper!” he begs.

Nott keeps one hand gripping tightly on his collar and holds up the parchment with the other, inches from his face.

 

> _ To The Mighty Nein, _
> 
> _ If my plan works, I don’t know if this note will even exist anymore. If I fail, this note might be in ashes or soaked in blood anyway...  _

 

It’s Caleb’s note. In the shaky handwriting Bren still has even though his hands don’t tremble like that anymore. 

“What-What about this note?” he asks, trying and failing to keep the fear out of his voice. This is… this is too close to the truth. 

“WHY IS IT STATIC?” Nott shouts, at the same time Beau growls, “Why can’t I fucking read it?”

That’s when it clicks for Bren. They can’t read it, because for them, Caleb never wrote it. Reality is actively compensating for its existence every time they look at it. The paper and the ink would still exist without Caleb’s interference, but the ink would not be on that parchment. So until something destroys it, the note exists outside of reality.

Except for Bren, who has lived in the reality where it was just a normal note. Where Caleb wrote it sitting criss-crossed on the floor of a cave. The record does not skip for him. He is not a player in the universe’s game of red-light-green-light, but the Mighty Nein are. And every time they look at the note, or hear something they shouldn’t, they have a red light. The “static” Nott keeps referring to. 

It’s a fitting term, actually. The Mighty Nein are literally static pockets of a dynamic reality until it manages to correct itself.

His name, he realizes. In the original timeline, they would recognize it. So when they heard it, the universe compensated; it skipped them further in time until they forgot.

Liebe Götter, how are they even able to look at him without being pulled from reality indefinitely? There is no way his current appearance is so divorced from Caleb’s. 

“I think he can read the note,” Caduceus says. Bren tears his eyes away from the parchment and looks him in the eyes. “Am I wrong?” Caduceus asks. It’s not accusatory, but his tone implies he knows he’s correct.

“No,” Bren says, because this whole thing just got a lot bigger than the Vollstrucker. If they’re carrying that note around, it’s a miracle that reality hasn’t collapsed around the Mighty Nein. Or that reality hasn’t turned them into vegetables for pulling their brains out of existence every time they think about hi-

About Caleb. 

_ Not for you. An obligation. _

“What. Does it say.” Beau says, her voice eerily still. This is more than a regular threat. A patient Beau means she’s too desperate to be her preferred brand of reckless.

Bren stares at her. Half of him is afraid reality will rip to shreds if he tries, even though he knows that’s not how this works. How… how does it work? If they’ve been fine this entire time, why should he change anything? He should just Teleport away and continue letting reality warp in small ways around them. Steal the note and burn it on the way out.

“Please,” Nott says. Bren looks her in her massive, yellow goblin eyes. Remembers when Caleb was half-dead and three-quarters mad from hunger in the corner of a cell and begged her to help in the same way. 

“To the Mighty Nein,” Bren says, holding eye contact with Nott, practically exerting physical effort to shove his emotions away. They don’t belong to him. They belong to Caleb. 

_ Not for you. _

“If my plan works, I don’t know if this note will even exist anymore. If I fail, this note might be in ashes or soaked in blood anyway. Writing this seems rather pointless now.”

He flicks his gaze up for a moment. He doesn’t really need to look at the page, it’s memorized from his first reading. Nott’s eyes are a bit foggy, but she continues watching him with determination. 

“I was Caleb Widogast, and-”

Nott startles.

“What?” She yelps, leaping backward, off of him.

“It says ‘I was Caleb Widogast-’”

“How are you doing that with your mouth?” Jester asks. 

Bren looks out at the Mighty Nein, and they all stare at him with confusion and concern on their face. Their eyes are glassy, but a bit more lucid than the blank stares when he gave his name.

“Doing what?” he asks.

“Making static noises!” Nott says. 

“I- I am not. When do you hear static?” Bren knows exactly when they hear static. He wants to know if  _ they _ do.

“When you say-” Jester pauses. “Well it was right after-” Her brow furrows and she looks at Nott. “I don’t remember any of his words.”

“Me either,” Yasha says.

“I don’t remember anything, but that’s normal,” Caduceus shrugs.

“I fucking hate this!” Beau kicks some of the broken furniture littering the floor.

“But you can read it!” Nott says, “I know you were reading it. I can feel it. It has something to do with you, I know it does. I can tell by looking at you.”

Interesting.

“Nott, what do I look like to you?” Bren asks.

“What? Why would-”

“If you can describe my appearance to me, I will answer any questions you want, under this Zone of Truth, without evasion. I just need to hear what you think I look like.”

Nott exchanges glances with Jester, who shrugs.

“I mean it’s not going to get any worse,” Jester says.

“Okay…” Nott eyes him skeptically, “You have-” She stops. She stares at him. She tries again.

“You’re a man,” she says.

“Yes,” Bren encourages.

“You-You’re wearing an Empire military robe. It’s red.” She says it slowly and deliberately, like it takes great strain to even get it out. 

“Yes, yes, but what do I look like, physically?” Bren asks, “What color is my hair? My eyes?” He presses, “How old do I look? What  _ race _ am I?”

“Your… your hair is…” Nott’s eyes slip from hyperfocus to distant, as she furrows her brow and looks through him. Tears start to well in her eyes, but she doesn’t seem to notice as her frame finally relaxes, and they glaze over completely. When he looks at the rest of the Nein, he sees that they’re incapacitated too. Caduceus is drooling slightly. It would be amusing if it wasn’t horrifying, six people staring blankly through him, completely hollow.

Jester suddenly twitches, and her forehead wrinkles, the cloudiness behind her eyes dissipating slightly. 

“Y-You-”

Her whole body flinches and she grips her skull, falling to her knees and shaking.

“Y-You c-could u-use a b-bath, C-c-c-c-” her voice catches, much like his did under the Zone of Truth, except she can’t seem to snap out of it.

“C-c-c-c-c-c-c-” There are tears streaming down her face and she grips her head so tightly Bren is afraid she might hurt herself. The rest of the Nein continue to stare blankly through him.

“Jester!” he calls, but she doesn’t seem to hear him, “Scheisse. Scheiße. JESTER!”

Nothing he does works, and he’s tied in place. He has to do something now, or Jester is going to end up like Caleb did 34 years ago: utterly broken.

Bren jumps once, twice, three times, throwing his full weight onto the particularly wobbly points of the wooden chair. There’s a glorious CRACK on the third hit, and he slams his body one final time into that same spot, feeling the furniture completely collapse beneath him. 

The ropes around his legs and torso fall away as he stands, leaving only his hands tied behind his back. He swings his bound arms under him like a skipping rope, in a trick Ikithon drilled into him, and uses his teeth to pull out the knot. He’s free in seconds.  There was a reason Bren said they did not intimidate him.

He dashes to Jester, writhing in anguish, and does the only thing he can think of.

He slaps her across the face.

The effect is instantaneous. She blinks and lets her hands drop, one to her side and one to her cheek, staring up at him in shock.

“Time for that later,” he says, “You all right?”

Jester nods absently, still staring at him in confusion, but not total blankness like before.

It definitely didn’t hurt. Ikithon trained the Vollstrucker to be badasses, but Bren still has the physical strength of a paper bag. And yet-

He bends over and gently grabs her head in his hands, planting a feather-light kiss on her forehead. A phantom of a gesture from over 17 years ago. 

“All right.” He says softly, pulling his hands away.

_ Not for you. _

Bren stiffens.

“The others should snap out of it the moment I leave” he tells her. “If they don’t remember, don’t remind them. But if they do… well, you should really all try to forget.”

He turns and begins walking towards the door. “I will try my best to stay out of your way but-” his voice falters, and he pauses at the stairwell, “I will also see if there is anything I can do.” Bren sighs. “And. If you… do... remember. I suppose... tell them I’m sorry.”

He walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Temporal Distortion is a spell that i (or technically caleb) made up for this fic. because bren hadn’t cast it in 17 years, the kickback was 17d8 force damage, and he was supposed to take another 3d8 force damage per level of each spell he casts afterwards if he failed the constitution saving throw, but he rolled 2 nat20s. so... he took 30 damage instead of 60 and remained barely conscious. like. 2/103 HP barely conscious. 
> 
> (P.S. don’t imagine Mollymauk Tealeaf waking up to a note on his chest that’s absolutely unreadable and fills his already empty head with static.)
> 
> thank you for reading! any comments are greatly appreciated, and let me know that you want to see more!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Previously:** The Mighty Nein awaken to strange evidence of a ritual around their camp, but thinking too hard on it causes static to derail their thoughts. Eventually they forget about it completely. Bren Aldric Ermendrud, 17 years after he altered time to save his parents, makes the mistake of spying on the Mighty Nein. He is captured and interrogated, discovering that his Temporal Distortion is causing serious tears in spacetime and endangering the Nein. He leaves, seemingly with a new mission to right another wrong.
> 
>  **This Chapter:** A goblin and an aasimar take watch. A human weighs choices and acts a little selfish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what Matt said, but I cannot let go of Essik Theylass for Essek Thelyss I just can’t. Forgive me.
> 
> Also to be clear, this fic diverges BEFORE episode 69, if that wasn’t obvious, so. Imagine they saw that dungeon and said “nope” and just never went in :)

The night is quiet, save for the rustle of the wind on tall grass and the occasional stirring of a massive woman and a tiny goblin on watch.

The road to Nicodranas is beautiful in a way Nott hadn’t appreciated last time, when this whole adventuring thing was still fresh and anything that popped out of the woods could easily kill them. Now, though, they’ve fought wildlife in the Barbed Fields of Xhorhas; a couple of buffalo aren’t exactly intimidating.

That’s probably why Nott, who’s never really been all that invested in the majesty of nature or whatever Caduceus calls it, appreciates the twinkling fireflies dancing above the tall, obscuring field where they’ve made camp. It’s more… comforting than the desolate wastes. Feels more like home. She’s on her way to see Luc and Yeza, - maybe even become Veth again, if Yussah pulls through - prospects that only make her heart ache more as she stares out into a landscape very similar to the ones she played in as a little halfling girl.

What this potential transformation means for her time with the Nein and her career as an adventurer is a looming question she’s trying not to think about. Getting drunk sounds like a good idea right now.

“It’s really pretty.” Yasha says. Nott jumps half a foot and shoots magic booze out her nose.

“Sorry,” Yasha ducks her head in embarrassment. “It’s just been a while since I saw lightning bugs.”

Nott wipes her face, eyes are still narrowed in a suspicious glare, but it’s more for fun than real paranoia.

“What’s a lightning bug?” She asks.

Yasha raises an eyebrow.

“Those things,” she gestures to the insects flickering above them, “They flash like lightning.”

“Noooo, those are called fireflies because they flicker like flames.” Nott says, “I’m not stupid.” This sounds like the kind of thing her brothers would say so they could make fun of her for believing it later.

“No, they’re- you know, lightning bugs.”

Nott gives her a once-over.

“What, is that like a Stormlord thing? Are these his bugs?”

Yasha’s brow creases and she frowns.

“No, actually, Molly told me about them, back in the circus.”

“Oh.” Nott says awkwardly. Now she just feels shitty.

A tense silence hangs in the air now. Nott reflexively reaches for the flask and chugs until she cant breathe. How does anyone ever handle these things sober?

“We used to catch them,” Yasha finally speaks up again, “In the circus. I guess squishing a bunch of them gives you- gives you paint that glows in the dark.”

“Yeah?” Nott asks.

“Yeah,” Yasha continues, “I’d only ever catch one at a time to look at, though.”

“Oh.”

Another stretch of painful silence.

“Molly asked me to help catch enough for paint, once. Said he wanted the first, um, glowing tattoo.” Yasha stares up at the flickering bugs.

Nott doesn’t say anything. She’s not really sure _what_ to say.

“I feel like that would be pretty gross, you know,” Yasha turns her head back to Nott, “Just having bug guts under your skin.”

Nott can’t help it, she snorts in laughter.

Yasha’s face breaks into a grin and she snickers too. Suddenly they’re both laughing, struggling to keep the noise down so the others don’t wake up.

When their giggling finally pewters out, Yasha sighs and looks back up at the twinkling bugs.

“He would still wear it well, though,” she says, somber.

“Yeah,” Nott agrees. Even though Mollymauk was a shifty asshole, his clusterfuck style reminded her of the way Veth used to decorate herself with buttons and random baubles. 

“Jester would do it for him,” Nott adds.

Yasha smiles. “She definitely would.”

Nott tries to think of something else to say, keep the conversation going to end on something less… painful.

“We’ll be in Alfield by tomorrow,” she says, “Excited to see Bryce?”

Yasha shifts awkwardly, looking down. “I don’t… I don’t really know Bryce at all. I was never there when you passed through.”

“Oh.”

Way to go, Nott.

“Molly filled me in, though,” she says. 

This is the exact opposite of what she was hoping this conversation would do.

“I always thought the name was a bit odd,” Yasha adds, “ _The Mighty Nein._ I don’t think he explained the joke very well.”

“Well that’s because-”

Nott doesn’t actually know how to finish that sentence. Why were they called the Mighty Nein? There’s only ever been seven- no, six of them.

 

 

> _“Hey there new guy, you know good words that, like, sound cool in Zemnian right?”_
> 
> _“̸҉W̕͜͞e̸̕҉̡ ̡͢a̴͘͘͡r̸͘͘͞͠e̴̢ ͘͟T͏̡h̨e̸ ͠͞M҉̡͢i͟͞g̨͢h̴t͏͏͘y̸̡ ̴̴̧N̡͘e͟͞į̵̛n̡͡.͜”̡̛͘͝_
> 
> _“Nein?”_
> 
> _“Nein!”_
> 
> _“The Mighty Nein.”_
> 
> _“I can buy that.”_

 

The world around her is flooded with static. Her brain is struggling to grasp the memory. She’s hit with a pounding headache and clutches her skull in pain. 

“It’s… Zemnian?” she manages to grit out. Zemnian. It’s Zemnian. Why is that important? Why does it feel like she’s felt this before?

“Nott, what’s wrong? Are we being attacked?”

“No! I’m fine!” She screeches. 

Her headache spikes and she falls to her hands and knees on the dirt in front of them.

“AHHH! I’M NOT FINE!”

What was she remembering? It was important. It would be so much easier to just let go but she can’t, she has to remember. Their name. The Mighty Nein. It’s Zemnian. Remember.

“Everyone up!” Somewhere distant, she can barely hear Yasha yelling. “Something is wrong with Nott!”

 _Shut up, I need to hold onto this_ , she wants to say.

“ZEMNIAN!” is what comes out.

Why is their name Zemnian? Who in their group knows that language? It’s human, not far from Felderwin. Beau maybe?

Instantly her brain latches onto the answer to accept it. Yes, yes, yes it was Beauregard it has to be that’s the only logical solution who else could it be.

But Beauregard was the one who asked for the name; how could it be her? She was talking to someone, Nott remembers. Who was it? Who do they know who speaks Zemnian? Remember. Remember. Gods, she feels sick. The world is spinning. She might vomit. Remember.

There’s a sharp sting against her cheek that shocks her so hard she forgets to concentrate for a split second. She blinks in surprise up at Beau, who’s straddling her with raised a bladed hand over her head, on the backswing for a second slap.

“WAIT! FUCK! STOP!” Nott screeches, scrambling out from her. “I have to remember what I was thinking about!”

The varyingly sleep-rumpled members of the Mighty Nein exchange confused glances.

“Fuck!” she swears, “It was something important. I don’t know what it is but there’s like a- a block! In my mind!”

More confused glances. Caduceus raises an eyebrow.

“You said something about… Zemnian?” Yasha says tentatively.

“YES! Yes! Zemnian! That’s important. Zemnian! Why is that important?”

“Uh-” Beau says.

“Our name?” Yasha says.

“YES!” Nott points at her. “Our name! Who came up with our name?”

Yasha’s eyes go wide. “I-I don’t know, I wasn’t there. That’s what this was about.”

Nott whips her accusatory finger to the group.

“Who came up with it?” She shouts, “Does anyone know?”

“No,” Caduceus says easily. “Should I?”

“Not you!” Nott spits, “You!” She points at Beau, “You were the one who asked! Who knows Zemnian? The name is Zemnian! Why is it Zemnian?”

“Jesus, Nott I don’t fucking know!” Beau says, holding her hands up defensively. “I think maybe Bryce came up with it? Calm down.”

Of course. That makes sense. Everything in her head is telling her that logically, this makes the most sense. The static fades as she decides to accept it. The Nein are nodding in agreement. It tracks for them too.

No. No,- Nein! that logic isn’t right. The answer is somewhere in the static she just needs to hold on and find it.

“No! Bryce is the one who needed it! They didn’t make it! Who did?” Nott is practically snarling between her frustration and anxiety from the static. She can’t shake the feeling that something is horribly wrong; her paranoia hasn’t been this strong since before she met-

“It was probably Mollymauk,” Jester says, looking at Nott with concern in her eyes “He was a pretty weird dude.”

“Oh, yeah,” Beau nods. “I can’t believe I forgot. It had to be him.”

“Yeah, I remember that,” Fjord agrees.

“But Mollymauk didn’t know Zemnian,” Yasha says. Her forehead is creased in agitation. If Nott has to guess, she’s currently fighting static too.

Silence from all the others. 

“Come to think of it, why do we know that’s Zemnian?” Caduceus asks.

“I just know it’s Ze-” she freezes, mid-word, as it hits her.

Nott darts to where Jester was sleeping and begins digging feverishly through the pink haversack.

“The books!” she yells, finally feeling them in her grasp and pulling them out, “I don’t know how I forgot about them! These theories, these ideas, these _clues_! They all go to static if I don’t maintain concentra- Like a spell!” She interrupts herself, sounding like an absolute lunatic, but she can’t find the spare energy to care. She’s on the cusp of piecing it all together, cracking the case, she can feel it. She just needs to pull all her thoughts into one place before they’re devoured by the quicksand in her mind.

“Like a, like a concentration spell! I need to keep focusing or I lose it! And that’s what these books are, I think, they’re wizard spellbooks. Look,” she opens one up and flips it to a page with familiar runes and foreign writing, “This one is Message! And-and this one is- ...well I can’t read the name of it in Zemnian - but for some reason I know it’s the spell that makes Beau insanely fast sometimes! Thing is, I can’t cast this one, and you can’t cast this one,” she gestures to the other magic users, “so why do we have it? How did we use it?”

“That’s-” Beau sounds like she’s ready to fight, but can’t think of anything to say, so she lets the word hang in the air.

Nott feels the static threaten the back of her mind, but fights it off. _Spellbook, Zemnian, Memories, it’s all connected,_ she chants internally.

This whole conversation is starting to give her an eerily strong deja vu, fighting against the urge to stop thinking about it.

“But that- But that- that’s crazy!” Jester sounds like she’s about to cry, “We would have noticed if something was wrong! Beau can… Beau can just do that! That’s a monk thing, right Beau?”

Beau doesn’t answer, but her lips press into a thin frown. She looks like she’s trying to remember if it is indeed a monk thing. 

They’ve had this conversation before, Nott realizes. Perhaps multiple occasions.

“But Jester,” Nott says, “We did notice! I think- I think I’ve been trying to figure it out for weeks! And when I asked each of you about it, you knew _something_ was wrong for at least a few seconds before coming up with an explanation. And then Beau had a whole episode, right? There’s something missing here, and we have to figure out what it is!”

Fjord opens his mouth to speak, but a realization strikes Nott first.

“Oh my god! Jester! Jester! I can’t believe I didn’t realize this before!” Nott’s head is swimming with static, but she pushes her way through it with all her might and starts tearing through the spellbook for the right page. “Look! Right here - this is one of your dicks!”

Jester gasps in delighted surprise. “It is! I would recognize it anywhere that is definitely my dick!” Her face turns stormy now, “But… how did it get there? Why is it in this book I’ve never - I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before?” She looks away from the book uncomfortably, and Nott suspects she’s avoiding the static. “Definitely probably never before,” she mumbles.

“Now hold on,” Fjord says, laying a steadying hand on Jester’s shoulder, “What you’re saying, Nott, this changes everything. You make it sound like every major milestone of the Mighty Nein isn’t how we remember it. Are you sure we’re not just throwin’ spaghetti at the wrong wall?”

“First of all, never say that again. Second, glad that’s how I make it sound, because that’s exactly what’s happening! Buckle up, Fjord, Nott’s Detective Agency is busting this case _wide_ open. Right Jester?”

Jester does not say anything. Instead she shifts uncomfortably, looking from Nott to Beau to Fjord to Yasha before coming back to Nott and staring down at her hands.

“Jester?” Nott tries not to let the hurt creep into her voice, “We’re the best detectives in the world! We can solve this!” 

“Y-Yes that’s very true we are the best,” Jester says sadly, twirling one of the rings on her finger and still not looking up, “It’s just…”

Her voice catches a little bit, like she’s about to cry.

“This whole thing is very scary, Nott. And not the normal scary with like the monsters and all the politics and stuff because now that’s no big deal but,” she swallows and steadies her breath. With her darkvision, Nott can see a tear running down her cheek, “When I think about it, my mind gets all fuzzy and loud and awful! And there’s something- there’s something in my heart that-that feels like I’m dying every time I think too hard about it. I think maybe I almost did at one point.” She quickly smears her palm against her face to wipe the tears away. “I don’t want to feel that way, Nott. I really don’t want anything to happen to you. You have to get back to Luc and Yeza and-and-and I care about you, Nott! I love you and I want you to be safe!”

Beau walks up cautiously and gives her a hug. Jester sniffs and looks Nott in the eyes.

“Nott,” she says, “It feels like this is bigger than us, you know? Like we can’t just fluffernutter this one. Might be some, you know, world-ending shit.”

Jester’s body language broadcasts how much it hurts her to say this. Beau is looking pointedly downwards. The rest of the Nein are staring at Nott, and it’s clear she’s alone in this.

She’s always been on her own in these situations. Why does it hurt so badly? She was alone before she found them, and she’s alone against them. So what is this weird, gut feeling that someone should have her back?

 

 

> _“He can protect me.”_
> 
> _“I think we can all do that.”_
> 
> _“Absolutely.”_
> 
> _“No. No, you can’t.”_
> 
> _“Nott, I hope you will learn to trust us and rely on us like you do ░̢̃̚͡░̵̉ͮͯ҉░ͫ̽͐ͮͫ̋͠░̾ͧ̿͏░̑ͨͩ̔ͣͨͦͨ̑͏͡.ͮ̀͂͢. We may not be as powerful as he is, or has the ability to become, but certainly we can help you.”_

Nott doubles over and swallows vomit, forcing herself to remain conscious over the crashing tidal wave of static in her ears, melting her brain.

 _Memories, Spellbook, Zemnian, it’s all connected. It’s all connected. Memories, Spellbook, Zemnian, it’s all_ connected.

She can do this. She can concentrate enough to figure it out. Distantly, someone is calling her name, but she cannot respond in fear of losing the thread. There was another member of the Mighty Nein, one that she trusted more than anyone, who spoke Zemnian and came up with their name and casted all the spells in that book. The logical conclusion is so close and it’s like her mind is reaching out to grab it but her reach is short by half an inch. If she just pushes a little further she can understand. _Memories, Spellbook, Zemnian, Memories, Spellbook, Zemnian, Memories, Spellbook, Zemnian, it’s all connected. It’s all connected. It’s all-_

Another smack across face startles her, and the static dissipates like smoke, taking the thoughts with her. This time, Beau is hauling her up by one arm while Caduceus hovers on the other side, eyeing her intently.

“NO!” Nott shouts, trying to rip her arm out of Beau’s grip, “No! I was so close! I figured it out! No! NO!”

After a few tugs she finally breaks out, scrambling across the ground like wild dog and pressing her back against a nearby tree defensively.

“I think,” Caduceus says, holding his hands up placatingly and taking slow steps towards her, “That we should all just calm down a bit.”

There’s magic laced into his voice, Nott realizes. She feels a cool breeze rush over her, starting in the tense frame of her shoulders, beckoning her to relax the strain on her mind and body.

No, no there’s something important she needs to remember. Her concentration will not drop. She stiffens her body and hardens her mind, pushing out whatever spell Caduceus was trying to put her under.

“I WILL NOT BE SEDATED!” Nott yells, scampering up into the tree like a feral raccoon. It’s not very graceful, and actually takes an embarrassing amount of effort.

“Oh, dear,” Caduceus says, sounding more inconvenienced than concerned.

Nott peers down from her branch at the Mighty Nein surrounding the base of the tree - though “down” is a liberal term considering Caduceus is about eye-level.

_Remember. You have to remember. It’s all connected. Memories, Spellbook, Zemnian._

“Just leave me alone I have to think!” she shouts, backing up towards the trunk to get out of Caduceus’ reach.

“Nott, I’m worried this is becoming somewhat of a destructive cycle,” he says calmly, reaching a long arm in without problem.

“No! Stop!” she shouts, jumping back and forth to dodge his grasp surprisingly well.

After a few failed attempts to drag her down, Caduceus sighs and retracts his arm.

“C’mon, Nott, I want some fuckin’ sleep.” Fjord calls.

She pokes out of the foliage to flip him off before quickly retreating to the trunk.

Focus. She needs to focus. _Memories, Spellbook, Zemnian, it’s all connected._

“Please, Nott, I’m worried about you.” Jester begs, “If you have another attack in that tree you are going to fall and get hurt.”

She sounds genuinely upset, and it’s almost enough to make her forget everything and apologize. But not quite.

“No, it’s all connected, I’m so close.” Nott calls back.

There’s some hushed conversation below, but Nott ignores it in favor of trying to swim through the static and find whatever it was she had before. What was that feeling? That strong sense of… something. Just a minute ago, it was clear as day and now everything is fuzzy and spinning.

“Nott.” Says a rough voice next to her.

She startles at the proximity and blinks to see Beau perched on the branch next to her.

“This is fucked up. Come down.”

“N-no! I can’t let this go. This is important, I know it. Memories, Spellbook, Zemnian.”

Beau closes her eyes and nods, taking a deep breath like she’s trying to compose herself.

“I might be the only one who agrees with that,” she says gruffly, “But Jester is worried sick, and if you don’t sleep tonight we’ll all be screwed tomorrow if something attacks us.”

“I’m fine,” Nott says reflexively.

Fuck, the static is so loud. And the conversation is taking so much of her focus, why don’t they understand-

“What do you mean you agree with me?” Nott asks, her mind catching up to what Beau said.

Beau shifts her weight on the branch.

“I think people should be able to to whatever bullshit they feel like,” Beau says unconvincingly. Then she takes a deep breath and rolls her eyes. “Plus I get it too, sometimes. That, uh, static you were talking about.

“So follow it! Do what I’m doing and figure it out! You’re way better at climbing trees than I am - they won’t even be able to drag you down!”

Beau raises an eyebrow.

“Also you’re smart or whatever.” Nott waves a hand dismissively.

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now help me crack this! If we just-”

“No, Nott.” Beau cuts her off firmly.

Nott blinks, startled.

“What?”

“I said ‘no,’ I’m not going to help you. I’m here to talk you out of this tree.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t have to tell you why. I actually don’t want to talk about this at all. So get down from the tree and go to sleep so you’re not collapsing off the horses tomorrow.”

“No. I’m not doing anything until you give me one good reason.”

“Nott, I swear,” Beau growls, balling her fists in anger. Even crouching in a tree it looks intimidating.

“This is important! Why can’t you just fucking tell me!”

“Drop it, Nott!”

“No!”

“AUGH!” Beau shouts in frustration and punches the trunk next to her, shaking the entire tree and sending chips of bark flying.

Nott scuttles a little bit down the branch away from her but doesn’t say anything. They sit in silence for a moment, with only Beau’s heavy enraged breathing and the sound of crickets to fill it. The Nein are probably listening, but Nott decides not to point that out.

Beau takes a final deep breath and seems to center herself.

“Look, thinking about whatever is lost in that static makes me… angry, for some reason. Angry in a very specific way... A kind of anger I’m real familiar with. And I think… I think whoever is behind those tomes? I really don’t want to talk to them again, because they left us. They left us so they don’t deserve our fucking energy.” She clenches her hair with one hand. Nott can tell Beau is fighting the static as much as she is.

Beau lets out a long exhale, dropping her hands to rest limp on her knees, looking at her feet instead of Nott.

“My head hurts. I’m going to bed. Do what you want, but I’m done.”

She drops soundlessly from the branch and walks away, leaving Nott alone with static and feedback ringing in her ears.

 

* * *

 

A small silk cloth is draped over the globule of light floating in the little living area of Bren’s standard-issue apartment within the Vollstrecker living quarters. It’s not called that, of course. To all but a select few, it is part of a block dedicated to housing research professors at the Solstryce Academy.

For Bren, it is the home he shares with his wife, who is sleeping in the next room over. He told Astrid he would be coming in a few minutes after her. The cloth over the light is because he said that 4 hours ago, and he cannot let his wife know the true nature of his research.

For the past 6 months, he has been looking for some way to keep the Mighty Nein from destroying the fabric of the universe.

That’s actually a bit generous. The Nein at their current level do not have the ability to destroy the universe. Caleb is the one destroying the universe. They just exacerbate the cracks he left in spacetime every time they think of him.

And that’s the problem, because Bren did confirm it wasn’t just his presence making them punch holes in spacetime. He has a… discreet cleric in Rexxentrum who was willing to Commune and confirm that the timeline is slowly eroding. They apologized that even Ioun was unable to determine the source, but Bren knew. 

He should have seen this coming. It just… it’s so impossible, how could he?

By all calculations, after the night Caleb left, the universe should have stopped skipping. No one should even be able to _try_ to remember him, but even if they did it shouldn’t break the universe. He crafted the spell to sew up any tears in the timeline, and now that there’s no more Caleb, it should be seamless; nothing left to sew. The record shouldn’t be skipping if there’s no music left.

Even with his old garbage in their possession, the Nein should not physically be able to remember him. They just shouldn’t.

Bren had copied down the spell framework that Caleb used as soon as he got paper, but he really wished he still had all the calculations to pinpoint exactly where he was off. It’s been a while since he’s studied Kryn magic in earnest, and their spells use geometric calculations rather than arithmetic. It’s very fascinating, really. Caleb and Essik had several discussions about the pros and cons of both (right after arguing the superiority of a base-10 system vs a base-12 system). Geometric was certainly more intuitive, as calculations from one spell could often be applied to another, but arithmetic allowed for more flexibility and ingenuity - spell modifications.

And that was one of the issues. He’d altered the calculus in Temporal Distortion in a way that had never been done before, and it likely threw off a single variable that he had missed, resulting in a slow but inevitable collapse in space time. Essik had seemed unduly impressed by his Cat’s Ire spell, in hindsight likely because geometric calculations are usually unstable if they were altered, making his adjustment to the arithmetic seem much more remarkable. He remembers - 

Two arms wrap around his neck, startling him hard enough to bring a Firebolt to his fingertips for torching the research.

“You’re still up, süßer. I will not hesitate to drag you.”

Bren relaxes at Astrid’s voice in his ear. No one is here to kill him, his wife is just draping herself around him. He’s still nervous about her looking into the work. It’s encoded, to avoid immediate detection, but Astrid’s natural curiosity and perception is dangerous.

He turns around in his chair, closing his notebook with the same motion, hoping that it reads as casual - or maybe doesn’t even read at all, hidden by the quick kiss he presses into her cheek.

She leans into it but crinkles her nose as she does when she’s thinking.

“Why are you doing spell calculations in base… 12?” Astrid asks, letting Bren turn back around and setting her chin on his head. “At 3 in the morning?”

That’s already more information than he hoped she had.

“Just entertaining an idea.” He stares mournfully at the closed notebook, “Sadly, it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.” 

“Want me to look at it? Might have to convert it into base-10 because apparently my husband is fluent in absurd number systems, but I can find your loose thread.”

This would be so much easier if the calculations were manageable in base-10. Caleb used to convert the calculations for Essik’s dunamantic spells in his notebook, and it was ugly. The drow saw it once and gave a bemused chuckle. Bren can’t blame him.

But Götter, if anyone could figure out the problematic variable in this complex spell using only a shoddy recreation of the calculations, it would be Astrid. She’d pick up the base-12 system in an hour, too.

If only this spell wasn’t one of the most heavily guarded weapons in the Kryn dynasty that Bren would have no way of knowing without being A) a time traveller with really stupid friends or B) a spy. And it’s very unlikely anyone will suspect the former. (Though, ironically, Caleb was both.)

“That’s okay, liebling,” Bren says, “this might be one to shelf.”

As if that was an option. The universe is imploding. Every moment he spends not working on calculations is both selfish and dangerous.

Astrid presses a kiss into his hair and pulls back, patting his shoulder.

“Glad you’ll only be getting 3 hours of sleep for no good reason.”

Bren snorts.

“Ja. Suppose so.”

Every moment he spends not working on calculations is both selfish and dangerous. But maybe tonight… he wants to be a little selfish.

With a snap of his fingers, a Thaumaturgy plays a simple waltz from the corner of the room. Bren stands and snatches Astrid’s hand in his right, settling the left on her hip, guiding her swiftly and gracefully into the small open area of the little living area.

Astrid is startled for a moment, her eyes widening before recognition and delight illuminate them from behind. The tiny smile that stretches the corners of her eyes makes Bren’s heart melt, and she leans into him, following his lead in the dance.

There’s not much floorspace in the apartment, so it’s really more a gentle sway than a proper waltz. At Bren’s command, the globule of light dissolves into a string of several dozen Dancing Lights, which he spins slowly above their heads like a mobile, twinkling gently in some resemblance to stars. He recently calculated an alteration to the spell that allows for many tiny lights instead of the usual four, and he’s so glad he waited until now to show her. Astrid’s face is buried into his shoulder, but she looks up as the light changes, grinning at the magical ambiance.

“Where did you get the idea for this?” She asks, with both fondness and academic curiosity.

_Caduceus’ rooftop garden in the Xhorhäus._

“I remember on the night we left Blumenthal,” He says instead, “That I was excited but also nervous, and I did not know you or Wulf,” They spin with the crude music, “So I stared up at the sky on the back of that wagon and memorized the stars. I thought ‘It would be nice to recreate these with magic.’ But I never got around to it.” 

By now, he’s let Astrid take the lead. She always was the better dancer.

“Minor Illusion not good enough for you?” She asks. The amusement in her voice strums something in Bren’s heart.

“In all honesty, I hadn’t considered it,” he confesses, and her eyes and nose scrunch up as she laughs, “But you must admit, illusions never quite create shadows the right way.”

“Maybe not _your_ illusions,” Astrid teases, “You always make things twenty times harder for yourself, Bren.”

“Ah, that is also true, ja.”

“It’s lovely,” Astrid says, closing her eyes and burying her face back into his shoulder, “Very you.”

Their dance continues a little while longer, Astrid leading them in a simple yet graceful twirl in the tiny square of floor space. Eventually the Thaumaturgy fades and they slow to a stop, no longer dancing, just leaning into each other in the starlight of their living room. 

Bren thinks, for a split second, how easy it would be to burn that journal to ash and pretend this is the only life he’s ever known. Swaying here with Astrid in the home they made together, Eodwulf down the hall, and his parents hidden but safe in Tal’Dorei. A universe where he’s hurt and murdered countless people, but never anyone he loves.

Except that’s not really true, is it? He thinks of the Mighty Nein staring right through him. Beauregard’s brutality, Jester’s debilitating attack, Nott’s feral paranoia. He’s not so vain to think they need him, but he does know that ripping so much time from them will only make them more unstable as time goes on.

Which means Bren has to weigh the value of his own fate against the Mighty Nein’s. Which also means, well…

He has to face the fact that he and Caleb are not as divorced as he has convinced himself.

It… it’s a hard pill to swallow. But he is Caleb. Rather, Caleb is a part of him. Even though he’s spent much more time as Bren, 15 years is not insignificant. He only knew the Nein for about 1 of those, but frankly, that was the only year that really mattered. It was the best year of Caleb’s life.

And it was sort of the best year of Bren’s life too.

He wishes the realization stung a bit more, but he’s been mulling it over subconsciously for months. Caleb, at his core, was a miserable human being who did something unforgivable. There was no happy ending for him in the future, only in his past. So he lived with one goal: to go back. But the Nein… they gave him something else to work towards

 

> _“_ _We have moved one inch closer to healing a wound, and there are many, many, many steps left. You're here to root out corruption. In our home, you want to root out corruption, Dairon wants to root out corruption. My whole childhood is mired in it.”_

 

And now he _is_ that corruption. If Beau knew, she would punch him even harder than in that interrogation chair.

It’s funny because Bren, on paper, should be completely satisfied with his life. He’s _happy_ , something Caleb never had. The Nein could help him forget the guilt and make him laugh, but Caleb would never call himself a “happy man.” Bren would. He loves his wife, he loves his best friend, he even loves his job - as immoral as it is - he loves being the second best warcaster in the world behind Astrid.

But ever since his run-in with the Nein, there’s been a lead weight on his chest.

Every action is laced with guilt. Every traitor he cuts down wears Beau’s face, every outsider wears Jester’s or Fjord’s or Caduceus’, every Xhorhasian wears Yasha’s, every monster wears Nott’s.

The worst part is, he still kills them with ruthless efficiency. What does that say about him?

“We should go to bed.” Astrid says.

He hums in agreement but does not move. Neither does she. They sway in a silent embrace.

“Do you ever wonder…” Bren says finally, fumbling for words, “Do you ever think about…”

He trails off, not entirely sure how to articulate everything running through his head.

“Probably, ja.” Astrid says, still leaning into his shoulder with her eyes closed, but she’s smiling.

It’s enough to make Bren let out a huff of laughter. Suddenly all of the confusion around what he wants to ask melts away.

“Are you happy?”

She pulls back enough to look up at him and raises an eyebrow.

“Like right now? Or-”

“With your life, süßer. Do you have any… regrets?”

She crinkles her nose the way she does when she’s frustrated by a difficult spell - when she’s thinking.

“Ja? About the happiness, I mean. I’m the greatest war mage in the world, I have you, I have Eodwulf, I have the Empire. What more could I ask for?”

Bren furrows his brow and nods. Tries not to think about how his in-laws are buried in an unmarked plot outside of Blumenthal.

“Of course. Ja.”

Astrid isn’t stupid.

“Is this about that ‘vacation’ you took a while back?” 

He has no idea how much she knows about that “vacation” aside from it being the first day off he’s ever taken in his life. Part of her and Wulf’s offer was that it was no questions asked, and he was smart enough to go to a cleric who would quietly heal Beauregard’s makeover before he came home.

“Ah, no, I’ve actually been thinking about this for much, ah, much longer.”

25 years longer.

Astrid raises an eyebrow and stares into his eyes. Scrunches up her nose in that cute way. 

“The weird thing is, I completely believe you. Now I’m _sure_ you’re not alright.”

“Heh,” he lets out a dry laugh and brings one hand off her waist to cradle her cheek instead.

The lack of denial is enough to suck the rest of the whimsy out of the room. Concern is written all over Astrid’s face. With a snap of her fingers the room’s lanterns ignite, drowning the twinkling faux starlight. He lets his globules fizzle out.

“Bren,” she says, looking him in the eyes and grabbing the front of his shirt in a fist. He drops his hand and lets her. To an outsider it might look threatening, but he knows Astrid enough to know that’s not what this is. She doesn’t know what to do - something that rarely happens these days - and she’s trying to ground herself. It’s a stance that reminds her of control, subconsciously.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?”

He really, really wishes that were true. Astrid loves him a lot, but in their line of work, love is nothing in the face of treason. She says “anything” because the idea of Bren, the second best Vollstrecker in the garrison, her _husband_ , doubting his place in the Empire is unfathomable. It’s outside the realm of “anything.”

“I know, Liebling.” He mumbles. It’s not even a good lie - Bren is trained in the art of a good lie - this is ugly.

“Do you?” She asks, tightening her grip. “I’m serious. I’m not Ikithon - I’m not here to break you to greatness or whatever. If you’re feeling something you can talk to me. Or Wulf, even, if it’s about me. He may be strike leader, but he’s still your friend.”

Gods, lying to her hurts.

“I don’t know what I’m feeling.” He says. That, not surprisingly, is the truth.

“Then we can talk about that too. Scheisse, Bren, none of us were really the same after graduation, but for you it was like the weight of the world was suddenly on your shoulders.”

If only she knew.

“I was relieved when you finally took a break, but if that was you trying to find 'happiness,' you won’t find it in a day, and you won’t find it alone.”

Astrid releases him and takes the smallest step back.

“At least I hope you won’t.” Her voice is quiet.

“You are my happiness, Astrid.” He says firmly, placing a comforting hand on her arm. Bren is unsure of so many things these days, but he believes in this.

She puts her other hand on top of his carefully, like she’s afraid it’ll dissolve.

“And if I were suddenly not enough, you would tell me or Wulf or _someone_ , right? This isn’t about my feelings, I can take it.”

“I promise.”

Her eyebrows are still knit in worry and her mouth is curved into a tiny frown, but she nods in acquiescence and pulls him into a hug.

“We need you, Bren.” She whispers into his shoulder. “The Empire needs you.”

He brings his hand to her head and runs his hand slowly over the tight shave, back and forth.

Selfish. In every universe, in every life. Bren or Caleb. He’s selfish.

 

* * *

 

It is 14:33, the sun is at its zenith, and the sky is pitch black darkness.

The perpetual night in the Drow capital of Xhorhas seems like a natural tactical advantage for the Vollstrecker, who operate under secrecy. The ability to vanish into shadow at any time of day seems too good to be true for anyone trying to be a ghost story.

Because it is too good to be true. In the Empire, where citizens have limited to no darkvision, perpetual night is a Scourger’s playground, but in this city, it’s a pied piper. To most of Rosohna’s citizens, the shadows are the easiest to see. The man keeping out of the light is the most prominent. They thrive on dimmed lights and see more than any Vollstrecker could imagine in the darkness. There is nowhere to hide in a city like that.

However, turning off this perpetual night would render every prominent member of the royal dens and 97% of the royal guard completely blind. So perhaps it can be an advantage, if you can Dispel Magic in the right place.

That is precisely what the Vollstrecker are being sent to do; rather, half of it. This is the mission for Bren’s half of the strike team, under Eodwulf’s command. They, plus two other Scourgers, will take down the darkness enchantment enveloping the city, while Astrid’s team capitalizes on the blindness to escape with a powerful weapon from the Lucid Bastion.

Bren was not briefed on what was being retrieved. He was only told that it was a powerful weapon. It is not, in fact, a weapon. At least not traditionally. It is an artifact in the shape of a dodecahedron – a Luxon Beacon, to use native terms.

Bren, technically, does not know this, but Caleb does. Caleb used to stare into it every few weeks to bend fate, before he learned to do that with his own two hands. Caleb’s friends passed it around casually like a wineskin, before they found out it was a remnant of a god and the center of a religion. Caleb held it by the handle in front of the Bright Queen herself, begging for sanctuary. And Caleb knows that if the Empire is willing to send Vollstrecker to break into the Lucid Bastion, it is probably for this Beacon.

But Bren, technically, does not know this, so he cannot give his wife advice about the location of the vault or the number of guards to expect. He cannot tell her to stare into the beacon once she retrieves it so that she has a mote to use in an escape. Bren can only give her a peck on the cheek and try not to think about all of the incorrect intel in his brief, so that he does not speculate how much incorrect intel was in hers. (Ever since the Nein returned the stolen Beacon, security to the vault doubled…)

He swallows his anxiety; they’ve completed missions with bad intel and even worse odds on countless occasions. Astrid is hyper-competent, unfathomably brilliant, and the best mage in Wildemount. She will be fine.

Instead, Bren should be focusing on navigating the hallways of the Marble Tomes Conservatory, based on the shitty maps Eodwulf was given for the team to memorize. They’re horribly inaccurate, likely drawn from the shoddy memory of a torture-weary Kryn soldier who had only been to the less secure areas of the domed halls. Bren remembers more accurate information from Essik’s off-handed comments to Caleb.

Luckily, each member of the team has infiltrated a different entrance, so he does not need to pretend to get lost. It would, after all, be highly suspicious for a drow of Den Theylass, as his disguise indicates, to get lost here. The other team members wear nondescript den crests because the Empire does not understand dens and the potential infiltration errors that it may cause. For the purposes of this mission, his comrades should easily be taken for members of lesser dens. Bren, however, needs the status for more personal reasons.

Ignoring the map’s directions to head for the nonexistent South Dome, Bren turns left towards the Eastern Tower, where Essik worked– no, works. He has approximately 2 minutes and 37 seconds while the other members of his team re-calibrate their mental maps and realize they should be heading to the Northeastern Hall.

With this precious spare time, he ducks into one of the many spiral staircases in the Eastern Tower, steps off onto the second floor, and slips into the Library of Dunamantic Magicks. As much as he would love to spend the rest of his life in this place, he beelines to exactly what he is looking for.

He spots a large filing cabinet along the wall and strides towards it with confidence. No one pays mind as he opens the third drawer from the top and runs his fingers along the many, many parchments under **THEYLASS, ESSIK (C)** , until he catches sight of a familiar one.

 

**_THEORIES AND POSTULATES OF UNSTABLE TIMELINES IN DUNAMATIC PRACTICES_ **

**by**

**ESSIK OF DEN THEYLASS, SHADOWHAND TO BRIGHT QUEEN LEYLAS KRYN UMAVI, CONSECUTED**

 

When Caleb managed sporadic peeks at this parchment, Essik was still tweaking the final copy, and kept it very close to his chest. Now, it is another in a long line of published magical dissertations under his name. Bren will be using it to undo what Caleb used it for in the first place.

Regardless of what that means for… his current life.

Bren only has another 24 seconds until he would, conceivably, realize the true layout of the library and head towards the Northeastern Hall. Subtly, he tucks the parchment into his cloak, closes the cabinet, exits the library, and descends the stairs, in that order.

As he steps off the final stair, he makes eye contact with another male drow in academic robes that he recognizes as Eodwulf with the help of the crystal embedded in his arm. The drow blinks once, deliberately, as he passes by, indicating that the mission is still the objective.

Bren continues down the hall to loop around without drawing attention. He compartmentalizes the culminating panic over Eodwulf witnessing his detour. He wears paranoia like a second skin these days, picking up old habits from Caleb like a rehabilitated feral cat. Bren has gotten away with sneaking books for this project for the past several months, and he can do it again. If Wulf says anything about it, he’ll convince him it was confusion over the inaccurate maps.

That will mean appearing marginally incompetent, but at this point he’ll just have to swallow his pride. If Essik’s dissertation contains what he remembers, it might only matter for a few more months anyway…

Bren _definitely_ doesn’t want to think about that.

After another 1 minute and 22 seconds of not being suspicious, he ducks into the water closet, pretends to freshen up, and heads back the way he came to the rendezvous.

He enters the Northeastern Hall and leans casually against a pillar as if waiting for someone to meet him. Technically, he is. Another drow who was walking behind him continues forward, barely noticing.

Once the hall is clear, he kneads a ball of gum arabic with his thumb, muttering under his breath. The light surrounding him distorts slightly and flashes a nearly-translucent sigil, casting Greater Invisibility.

Moments pass. A female drow with a nondescript den crest (Hester, the crystal in his arm reveals) enters the hall from the opposite side and approaches a door marked “AUTHORIZED PERSONS ONLY” in several languages. With ease and confidence she waves a hand over the doorknob. A sigil burns into the handle then sizzles away. Hester looks back into the hall, nods once, decidedly, and kicks open the door.

Bren and two other invisible persons rush in behind her, forming a wedge. Eodwulf, still invisible but detectable with the crystals in their arms, takes point. Bren takes the left behind him, Hester the right, and their final member, Sojourner, on the right behind her.

They’re in a 15ft wide, 50ft long hallway that shouldn’t fit in the space based on the layout of the building. At the end of it is a doorway, flanked by a total of six drow in warmage armor, who are already glowing with geometric sigils and flinging spells down the corridor.

The Vollstrecker take off down the hall. Hester, as the only one visible, shoulders the brunt of the enemy fire while the other three skirt along the walls where they can Counterspell area of effect spells but remain otherwise undetectable. Hester, the hardest of their team to hit, and forgoes spellslinging to dodge. She manages to sidestep almost everything thrown at her, only once throwing up a Shield.

One of the drow slips through Wulf’s Counterspell with a Cloudkill, which just barely reaches Sojourner at the edge of its range. Sojourner fails to maintain concentration and their Invisibilty drops, just as the poison air causes Hester to falter and another drow hits her with a Banishment. Abandoning stealth, Sojourner punches the air and casts an absurdly powerful volley of Scorching Rays. The drow holding the Banishment is completely incinerated, and the two beside him look worse for wear. Hester pops back into existence and slings a Disintegrate without missing a beat, reducing one of the untouched drow to ash. 

Bren and Eodwulf make it to the doorway undetected, each casting a Shocking Grasp on a guard as they slip through to assist the teammates who will stay behind to finish them off and keep any reinforcements at bay.

When the door shuts behind them the room is pitch black. Eodwulf casts Light on a pebble in his pocket and throws it into the center of the room.

Before it can hit the ground, two drow in academic robes are sending spells at them. One sigil registers in Bren’s mind as one that Caleb saw on a battlefield, the first time he stepped into Xhorhas. Without thinking he Counterspells the Compress Gravity, but he and Eodwulf are still slammed with some kind of force damage from the other mage.

The wind is knocked out of him, sending a spray of blood from his mouth. Wulf, however, looks like he managed to brace himself against the worst of it, and vaults over the now-visible railing in front of them.

The room is small and circular – no, icosagonal – about 30ft in diameter. It’s shaped like a pit, with a 10ft wide raised walkway lining the room, which Eodwulf is currently leaping from. In the center of the pit is a circle of geometric runes etched in silver into the floor, surrounding a simple pedestal. Atop it hovers a black bead, no bigger than a ball bearing, unnaturally dark to the point of absorbing all light around it, like a hole poked into reality.

The two drow chase after Eodwulf, inside of the enchantment circle now. One of them casts Banishment, Wulf resists. The other casts Hold Person, and Bren can feel it pressing over him as well. The spell shatters easily for him, but Wulf is held in place, frozen in the phantom grip of the mage.

Bren leaps over the railing after his old friend and pulls an iron filing out of his pocket, grinding it in his palm, muttering a few words in Zemnian and scattering the dust in an arc over his head. 

A few things happen at once, when he casts Antimagic Field. 

Bren’s ears pop and the air around him grows stagnant. He feels the thrumming of magic that normally travels in the planar currents around him stop cold. He tastes iron, though that could be from the internal bleeding.

Eodwulf gasps for air and stumbles free, nodding at Bren in gratitude. The drow stumble back in horror.

The hovering void above the pedestal stops sucking in light and falls. It hits the pedestal with a metallic ping and rolls across the stone floor.

Bren dives for it, so does one of the drow, but Wulf intercepts and pins him easily. The other drow forgoes the ladder and hoists himself out of the pit, through the door. The screams and sound of flesh sizzling means Hester and Sojourner have taken care of loose ends.

“Lass uns gehen,” Bren taps Eodwulf and quickly pockets the now-mundane marble.

Wulf pulls out a dagger and efficiently slits the drow’s throat, snatching a health potion off the thrashing body and shoving it into Bren’s hand.

“Take it when the spell drops, you look like shit,” Wulf grins, patting his shoulder, “And stay the fuck away from me until then.”

With that he takes a running start and vaults onto the walkway without losing momentum.

Bren sighs and climbs the ladder. About halfway up, he registers screaming – faint but hysterical, somewhere far off.

He reaches the hall where the rest of the team is disposing the last of some pitiful reinforcements. They groan in annoyance when he strides past them with his anti-magic field in tow, but he can tell they’re also relieved; the mission is almost complete. Now they go their separate ways and reconvene in Rexxentrum.

Bren just has to keep the city lit for another 57 seconds, and Astrid should have enough time to get away.

Stepping out of the chamber into the Northeastern Hall is a shock. In the dim light, he hadn’t realized that the entire wall of the building was stained glass. Now, with the sun pouring through various white, pink, purple, and blue crystals, the sight is almost too bright even for him. It makes sense, in hindsight; the few days when the Kryn purposely drop the enchantment are religious holidays, so windows like this would be a place to gather.

To his left, a female drow in academic robes screeches in pain, hiding her face in the crook of her elbow. She’s staggering in the direction of the enchantment room, which means she is probably the first of many real reinforcements. It’s enough to get Bren moving.

He turns right, exiting the Northeastern Hall and running for the Eastern Tower at full speed. His plan is to take one of the staircases to the roof, chuck the marble, turn Invisible, and Featherfall off.

When he steps off onto the final landing, there is a drow in fine robes and tinted goggles waiting for him, unaffected by the sun, and bearing the crest of Den Theylass.

“I don’t need magic to kill you,” says Shadowhand Essik.

Bren ducks instinctively as the man who taught him Dunamancy swipes wildly with an ornamental dagger.

Essik has no idea who he is. There is no familiarity in his eyes, not even a spark of recognition. Bren should treat this as he would any other complication to his plan.

Except Caleb’s paranoia and terror swells inside of him like a feral instinct and he panics, because he is weak.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the completely mundane black marble, and drops it down the staircase. As it falls out of the antimagic field, it begins humming and absorbing light again.

Essik says a word in Undercommon with a ferocity that could only be cussing. He dives over the railing after it.

Bren does not wait to see if he casts Featherfall in time. He drops Antimagic Field and casts dimension door as far from the Marble Tomes as possible. He falls a few feet, takes the damage, chugs the potion, and casts Invisibilty. He does not look back.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Bren does when he’s clear is cast Disguise Self, sit on a bench in the Corona district, and read the stolen dissertation. He does not read to understand the concepts, he instead blindly memorizes the pages, sets them on fire in his hand, and drops the ashes into the nearest well. Essik has the next hundred lifetimes to rewrite it, he’ll get over it.

 _Unless the beacon Astrid took today has his soul_ , a voice in his head whispers, _then who knows what that means for him_.

Gods, life was much easier when he didn’t have guilt over these things.

After a few hours of zig-zagging through the streets of Ghor Dranas disguised as a familiarly handsome half-orc, Bren makes his way to a discreet butcher’s shop and makes use of the teleportation circle in the basement.

As soon as he materializes in the deployment bay under the castle, Eodwulf shoves him out of the circle and pins him against the wall, an arm at his throat. Bren is acutely aware how big his old friend is compared to him. He hasn’t been pinned by Wulf since they were children, and puberty certainly favored one of them more than the other.

Beauregard was right; it is a little unfair.

“You’ve been taking things, Bren,” Wulf says, and he is vividly reminded of the exact situation a lifetime ago in Zadash.

The room is empty besides them. Bren is almost always the last Vollstrecker to return when they teleport disguised, because he kept some residual paranoia from Caleb and likes to verify several times over that he isn’t being followed. This means that there won’t be any other mages coming through to interrupt this... chat. And Eodwulf knows it.

“Astrid says we shouldn’t worry because it’s innocent study material, but she’s not responsible for the actions of every ‘strecker on this team. You know the rules, Bren. We. Report. Everything.”

On the last word he presses further on his neck, and Bren flinches involuntarily.

Wulf falters and his grip loosens minutely. “Look, something is up with you, and I’m worried. As strike leader, I need you to report, but as your friend… I need you to talk to me. Astrid is concerned. I can’t shake the feeling that all this is because you’re going through something and being too fucking proud to ask for help.”

Too proud to ask for help.

 

 

> _“Man, you make vulnerability look so easy.”_
> 
> _“It is.”_

He knew there was some irony in that exchange. Looks like he finally found it.

“Everything is fine, I apologize for stealing. I just wanted to learn more about Crick Dunamancy. See if I can find what we’re missing. I didn’t think Trent would understand.”

It’s not technically a lie.

Wulf’s eyebrows knit in concern, as he studies Bren for a few seconds. He was never the best at reading people, but Bren isn’t just anyone. Eodwulf has known him for 25 years. Even the part of him that is still Caleb; Wulf has known that part for over a decade.

Apparently, Eodwulf finds something he likes (or maybe something he doesn’t) because he takes a step back and releases him. Bren doesn’t realize he’s been holding in a breath until he exhales in relief.

“I’m serious. We’re worried. Normally your hyper-fixations are harmless, but these days you’re all over. Astrid says you’re forgetting to sleep and writing in some code she can’t crack. Asking weird questions.”

Avantika’s cipher. It’s how he writes all his personal notes these days, anything related to his research on fixing the Nein. He thought he kept it out of her reach. Apparently not. She’s gotten hold of something long enough to know it’s a non-standard code, which is enough to make his heart stop for a beat. Even if she only had a page, she’s smart enough to key it eventually. Then she’ll know-

Know what exactly? That he’s calculating dunamatic equations centered on some people she’s never heard of? That’s more likely to make him seem crazy than traitorous. Though, the more advanced equations would probably suggest that he’s failing to report new magical discoveries to the Empire, which is akin to treason for agents of their stature. If she doesn’t want to report him immediately, she may track down the Nein to figure out why her husband is so interested in them, which will likely result in all of Caleb’s friends getting deep-fried by a Delayed Blast Fireball for their Xhorhassian connections.

Wouldn’t be the first time his family went down in flames.

And that’s the catch, isn’t it? Either he undoes his spell and kills his innocent parents to save the family that helped him at his lowest point, or he continues living a timeline with Una and Leofric safe in Tal’Dorei, waiting for the day Astrid tells him the Nein are dead and turns him into Ikithon for reconditioning. 

“Bren?” Eodwulf’s hand on his shoulder startles him. He’s been dissociating.

Concern is written all over Wulf’s face.

“You’re not okay, Bren. I don’t know what’s bothering you, but if you blank out like that during a mission, you’re a danger to yourself and the whole team.”

Bren lets himself be visibly upset. Somehow being threatened with a medical discharge feels worse than being called a traitor. What’s left of Caleb inside him is rolling his eyes, and his mental Beau is saying “I told you so." 

“I’m not suspending you,” Eodwulf says, to his relief, “But you need help, Bren. Let us give you some.” He pauses and runs a hand over his short hair. His Pelor’s apple bobs with a thick swallow. “You and Astrid are the only family I have left. I can’t lose you.”

Oh. Wulf thinks he’s going to kill himself.

Oh, gods, Wulf thinks he’s going to kill himself.

Scheiße.

“You won’t lose me.” The words leave his lips instinctually, because Bren does not want to leave his oldest friend alone. He does not want to break his wife’s heart and leave Wulf to pick up the pieces. He doesn’t want to rip something else away from his best friends who let the Empire take their innocence and their agency and their memories and thank it every day for the privilege. He does not want to see these two hunting the Bren who is not Bren; the husk of himself. Cornering Caleb, asking “Why, why did you do it?” and referring to betraying the Empire, rather than leaving them without a family.

But the moment he says those words aloud, he knows they’re a dirty lie. An awful, disgusting lie that he wishes was the truth with every fiber of his being, because it would make it so much easier. He could burn every page of Avantika ciphers and tell Ikithon what he “discovered” about dunamancy, become the hero he wanted to be as a kid, and when some random band of adventurers are arrested for betraying the Empire he could pretend he doesn’t know them.

He could also lay awake at night next to Astrid and think about Jester’s fit, and Beau’s indiscriminate rage, and Nott’s feral glassy eyes. The sash of buttons around her still-goblin frame. Every member of the Nein staring through him, pulled out of time. The fights they will lose because they could have sworn they had more firepower than that. The holes they rip in the universe because they cannot comprehend his existence.

He blinks, and he’s encompassed in a crushing hug. There’s a tear on his cheek that wasn’t there before he dissociated. Eodwulf is shaking slightly, and Bren cannot see his face, but he thinks he may be crying too.

The Caleb inside him has never been more sure about what needs to be done. Bren has never been more pained to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to [Almost (Sweet Music)](https://open.spotify.com/track/5Apvsk0suoivI1H8CmBglv?si=Vme7QHecTXO2a2CGA2TEXw) and [Movement](https://open.spotify.com/track/1djzKW3eYLyzjjHXazEWWh?si=LZzGJHVpSL-ykDPTx4DzIw) by Hozier for Bren and Astrid’s dance scene. Listening to _Wasteland, Baby_ is how I formed their relationship in my mind, I love it so much.
> 
> I’m a huge sucker for music, and also worked so hard on this fic, so if you ever want to talk about songs or something in this chapter, PLEASE leave a comment or talk to me @[okiedokeTM](https://okiedoketm.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. 
> 
> As always, all kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> (Realizing now that I made Caduceus look like a bad guy despite him being my favorite ~~living~~ PC so pls don't hate on him he just has low INT thank you goodnight.)
> 
> I have WIP snippets of a second chapter and epilogue, but whether or not it actually publishes will be based off reader enthusiasm. Let me know! Comments and kudos mean so, so much. Thanks for reading


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